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Two Maids Sarasota Reviews from Real Customers
Letting Go of My Pride Gave Me Back My Freedom
OK, so. Full disclosure: I hated the idea of hiring someone to clean my house. Like, viscerally. I grew up in a “pick yourself up by your bootstraps” family (ugh), and admitting I couldn’t keep up with my own bungalow near Gillespie Park? Felt like defeat.
But here’s the thing—my knees aren’t what they used to be. (Thanks, arthritis.) And Sarasota humidity? A nightmare for sticky floors and musty corners. One day, I dropped a spoon and just… stared at it. Like, Do I really have to bend down for that? (Spoiler: I left it there for three hours.)
Anyway, my neighbor Marsha—bless her—finally said, “Honey, just Google ‘house cleaning cost calculator’ and stop torturing yourself.” So I did. And after some mental gymnastics (But what if they judge my weird collection of seashells from Lido Beach?), I booked a recurring service.
First time they came? Oh my god. The smell. Like citrus and sunshine punched the mildew right in the face. And the floors—actual floors, not just vague pathways between piles! I could’ve cried. (I did, a little.)
The day after cleaning, I hosted my grandkids without that low-grade panic of Did I miss a dust bunny colony under the couch? Instead, we ate lemon pie at the table (cleared of mail for once) and I actually relaxed. Wild.
Speaking of—anyone else notice how the afternoon storms roll in right when you’ve finally mustered the energy to sweep the porch? (Sarasota weather: chaotic evil.)
Me, staring at the sparkling sink: “Why didn’t I do this sooner?”
Also me: “Pride. Duh.
It’s not just about the cleaning, though. It’s the weight off. No more “I’ll get to it” guilt. No more pretending I’m fine hauling the vacuum upstairs (I’m not). And weirdly? Letting someone help made me feel stronger. Like I’d outsmarted the problem instead of wrestling it.
I’d been cutting off my nose to spite my face, as my grandma would say.
One day, the cleaner (a lovely woman who chats about her kids and doesn’t bat an eye at my shell shrine) found my favorite mug—the Siesta Key souvenir I’d “lost” under a stack of unread magazines. That was the moment it hit me: this wasn’t laziness. It was giving myself room to breathe.
Now? I spend my energy on things that matter. Like feeding the ducks at Bayfront Park. Or finally learning to paint (badly). And yeah, sometimes I still feel a twinge of Shouldn’t I be doing this myself? But then I look at my reflection in the streak-free mirror—laughing, not scowling—and think: Nah. This is better.
– Maggie Ruiz, Sarasota, FL