I keep swinging between wanting to hold onto everything and wanting to get rid of it all.
Every toy, every old sweater, every paper drawing with a name half spelled right makes me feel a mix of guilt, love, and overwhelm. I don’t want to carry clutter into a new chapter. But I also don’t want to forget where I’ve been. Not that I could ever forget. I just like the physical reminders. But I also know the physical reminders are dragging me down even more.
I’m moving soon. Not just houses. I’m leaving behind a version of life that was breaking me. And as I sort through bins and drawers and bags, it feels like I’m being asked to decide who I’m going to be next based on what I choose to keep.
Some days I want to pack light. Just the kids, a few bags, and go. Start over with a clean space and clean energy. No past weighing down the walls. That fantasy of being free.
Other days, I want to hold it all. The baby blankets. The mug I used during the pregnancy. Even the broken picture frames. It feels like letting go means forgetting.
But I’m learning it’s not about all or nothing. It’s about letting the memories stay while letting the items go. It’s about trusting that my life isn’t in the things. It’s in me. It’s in the way my kids laugh. The way we keep going. The way I still believe that better is coming.
I’m allowed to feel attached. I’m allowed to cry over a cracked teacup. I’m also allowed to say goodbye. I’m also, also allowed to take the cracked teacup with me if I want. But I think I need to stop wanting that.
So I’m taking it one piece at a time. I ask myself what feels like home and what feels like hurt. I keep what fits the life I’m building. Not the life I’m leaving.
And when I can’t decide yet, I give myself permission to pause. That’s okay too.
