I Discarded a Lifetime of Mementos—And the Freedom Was Life-Changing
By Rachel Werner
I have zero desire to allow the past, nor the "what if's" of tomorrow, to take up unnecessary, valuable space in our new home—or my psyche.
During my recent move, I finally decided to go through every box I own—the majority of which I had stashed in the back of a closet to collect dust undisturbed. The motivation to purge was purely financial at first, as I had hired professional movers. Paying per hour meant moving day had to go as swiftly and efficiently as possible. I didn’t have the time, cash, nor the inclination to drag this process out even a second longer than necessary.
Once I started cracking storage containers open, however, it became apparent that my heart needed this purge just as much as my checking account. So much of what I’d held onto was not for the woman I am now, but rather for the wanderlust twenty-something I’d once been—or future versions of myself once imagined that never materialized. This included baby clothes I'd packed away for additional children (which have yet to arrive) and a stockpile of receptacles in the underground garage of the downtown loft we would soon be vacating. Each box contained mementos from adolescence, previous relationships, or a short-lived marriage—all items which I hadn't touched in over five years.
Thanks to the advice of close friends, followed by hours of self-reflection, I ended up chucking the majority of it. Because not only has my life expanded in ways I never envisioned during those previous phases, but I have grown and changed too. Yes, I had matured. Yes, I had let go. But I’ve also healed. And I have zero desire to allow the past, nor the "what if's" of tomorrow, to take up unnecessary, valuable space in our new home—or my psyche.
So much of what I’d held onto was not for the woman I am now, but rather for the wanderlust twenty-something I’d once been—or future versions of myself once imagined that never materialized.
As the days passed and the donation piles swelled, the gift of emotional levity set in. Carrying this literal baggage from state to state (and for a while from country to country) was the physical manifestation of earlier precarious mental states. Holding onto notes passed in high school hallways, in addition to greeting cards addressed to newlyweds destined to become divorcees, was a subtle psychological toxin I had been feeding myself. I had been subconsciously clinging to these personal artifacts as tangible reminders of the love once present in my life, or good times I had while growing up. The problem is that this nostalgic time capsule I’d curated hinged upon primarily false narratives.
My childhood was tumultuous—and almost equally unbearable as the brief time I spent as a wife. Thus no matter how much I enjoyed painting the local dam on senior skip day or the desert flora I was mesmerized by in Palm Springs on my honeymoon, the smiles plastered on my face in the hundreds of photos I was hoarding likely faded quickly on whatever day these images were taken to commemorate. I spent a lot of the first three decades of my life unfilled, insecure, and desperate to prove myself worthy of the tiniest morsel of affection. So finally pausing to cut ties with these relics, as well as the trauma they inadvertently contained, was a necessary step.
So I did. And the reward was an inner peace I am still riding the high of three months later. Life is easier because I offloaded weight in the form of clothing, home goods, and correspondence that have no relevance to my current professional life or my role as a mother to a tween.
Finally pausing to cut ties with these relics, as well as the trauma they inadvertently contained, was a necessary step.
There’s nothing wrong with holding onto the good. Yet, before one can decide if a keepsake is worth saving for a sibling, bestie, or the next generation, the question needs to be asked if hanging onto this slice of history is healthy for you. For me, the answer unequivocally turned out to be ‘No.’ As a result, I decided to preserve–out of approximately 45 containers of various sizes–only six Trader Joe’s bags worth of items I am already parceling out to family and friends. (It may no longer be a treasure to me, but the first season of The O.C. on DVD is going to make a stellar gag gift for someone in my inner circle before year’s end.)
All of this has allowed me to approach setting up our new house with intention. Having less clutter—even in the basement—has given me the freedom to discover what a living space can be: A playground for the pup. A culinary classroom for the kid. And, maybe most importantly, a happy place for me.
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