Well, today turned into one of those “face the chaos” family days. All five of us were out in the garage sorting through years of accumulated life. I laid down one rule right from the start: if you’re not out here making decisions about your stuff, don’t be surprised if you never see it again. Miraculously, everybody showed up.
And honestly? The amount of stuff we own is almost embarrassing.
To be fair, not all of it is junk. A lot of it is perfectly good things we simply haven’t used in years. Which then raises the question… why exactly are we keeping it?
We’ve already hauled one full truckload to a mission thrift store, and we’ll probably have another by the time we’re done. There’s a mountain of cardboard recycling, overflowing garbage bins, and still endless Rubbermaids waiting to be opened, sorted, debated over, and reluctantly surrendered.
But it does feel good.
Part of what we’re doing is less “cleaning” and more archaeological excavation of five adult lives under one roof. We’re creating zones now: all of Lexie and RED’s stuff together so they know where it is when it’s time to move, Andrew’s things together, Lexie’s business inventory together. My immediate mission was simply to fit Lexie’s six bins of Christmas business décor into the garage so she wouldn’t have to store them at a friend’s house. And we will accomplish that
Because I have a personal philosophy about storage lockers: if we can’t store what we own on our own property, we probably own too much stuff.
I know there are legitimate reasons for storage units. If you’re moving overseas temporarily, renovating, downsizing, running a business, sure — that makes sense. But I suspect a shocking number of people are paying monthly fees to store things they don’t even remember they own anymore. Entire buildings full of forgotten treadmills, broken lamps, university dishes, mystery cords, and emotional attachments disguised as belongings.
What does that say about us?
Somewhere along the line, “having enough” quietly became “having more than we can manage.”
Mike turns 70 this year, and I’m right behind him. We can’t take any of this with us, and neither of us wants to leave our kids with a giant mountain of sorting and guilt one day. At some point you start realizing that simplifying isn’t deprivation — it’s relief.
Now, in my own defense, I am a creative person. Creative people do come with supplies. Fabric, paint, baskets, jars, ribbons, unfinished ideas, and oddly specific tools for projects we fully intend to do someday. And I do believe there’s a difference between decluttering and throwing away something you’ll just have to repurchase later.
But still.
Why do we own fifteen knapsacks and fifteen duffle bags?
Why is there luggage with broken wheels that nobody would willingly take through an airport?
Why does Mike need approximately half a million used golf balls?
Why do we own three artificial Christmas trees when we buy a real tree every single year?
Why do we still have two entire bins of Andrew’s university kitchenware untouched since 2012 — especially considering most of it originally came from Value Village in the first place?
And perhaps the biggest question of all:
Why am I emotionally attached to rollerblades I haven’t used in years, especially after two strokes and with balance that now occasionally argues with gravity?
This is the strange thing about possessions. They’re rarely just objects. They’re evidence of who we were, what we hoped for, what stage of life we were in, or who we thought we might become someday.
But eventually there comes a point where the stuff starts owning you more than you own it.
And maybe part of getting older is learning how to loosen your grip a little.
The Red Plaid Apron 