I didn’t expect to love cleaning carpet.

For the past few years, I’ve worked behind the scenes with Infinite, supporting the schedule, the technicians, and the customers. I’d tag along on jobs and watch my husband Steve Brown, one of the most technically respected minds in the field, point out details I often couldn’t see. I admired his precision, but at the time, I didn’t always understand what he was showing me. Not until I picked up a CRB machine myself.

Recently, I started cleaning. Not overseeing. Not planning. Just doing. Hands on the machine, knees on the floor. Learning not just how carpet gets cleaned, but what it feels like to be the one cleaning it.

And from that view, everything shifted.

I’ve always valued the people who do this work, but stepping into it brought a deeper clarity. There’s rhythm, focus, and intelligence in the movement where the machine drives forward and my steps fall in sync. It requires presence and intention. There’s satisfaction in knowing what to do and watching the results take immediate shape. What once looked like labor now feels like craft, marked by awareness and carried out with deliberate care.

Even now, with each job, I notice more.

The traces of human movement and presence that live in the carpet. The places where people pause, pivot, and carry weight. The soil that sits on the surface or settles into the pile. The patterns of use.

I think about the cords as I work, coiling and uncoiling, always aware of the distance between outlets. I focus on the cleaning process, but also on how the space flows. I pay attention to the surface and how it responds. I notice the balance between chemistry and thoughtful restraint.

All the things I used to miss have become clearer. Not because I’ve learned to look, but because cleaning has given me a deeper connection to what I see. The work has shown me that commercial carpet isn’t just a manufactured textile floor covering. It’s the most human surface in the built environment.

It cushions and adapts. It absorbs noise, traps soil, and filters air. It compresses beneath us and rises again. It reflects traffic, routine, and the subtle imprint of daily life. In a world shaped by constant movement, carpet holds the memory of it. It doesn’t just sit quietly beneath us. It speaks clearly. And the more time I spend with it, the better I understand what it’s saying.

I didn’t set out to become a technician, but doing the work has reshaped how I see commercial carpet and the people connected to it. I’ve learned it’s not just part of the story. It’s the one telling it.