I used to own so many things that, when held, literally made me feel guilty—works of art I hadn’t finished, personalized gifts from family and friends, sentimental items from life events, mechanical things in need of repair, duplicate items for “just in case.” I’d moved these things in boxes from apartment to apartment, across the country, only to continue storing them in boxes.
I didn’t own this stuff, it owned ME. It was baggage. It was weight, shackled to me. In the end, I sold, donated, recycled, digitized, and in some cases, even ceremonially burned my way to freedom. Slowly, methodically, and once or twice in a sudden purging spree.
I took pictures of things I thought I’d miss, but honestly, I haven’t gone looking for them. There’s nothing I regret eliminating. It was a challenging process, but once that stuff was gone, I felt so incredibly free. And I felt good knowing most things went to someone who needed them more than I.
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