“The Box I’ve Been Avoiding (Also Known as My Entire Emotional State)”

In the corner of my bedroom sits a box.

A plain cardboard box with a little dent in the side and a piece of tape that’s lost the will to stick. It’s not large. It doesn’t sparkle. But it holds something powerful: everything I’ve been avoiding since 2019.

You know the kind of box I mean.

It’s not labeled. That would require admitting what’s inside. But I know. Oh, I know. It's full of unsorted memories: mismatched chargers, letters I didn’t send, birthday cards from people I don’t talk to anymore, expired receipts, a key I think belongs to a house that doesn’t exist.

And emotions. So many emotions, tucked between tangled earphones and old notebooks.

I’ve moved this box from apartment to apartment like it’s some sacred relic. I dust it. I walk around it. I rest my coffee on it like it’s a table of denial.

But I never open it.

Until one rainy afternoon, when the power went out, my WiFi died, and the universe clearly said, "It’s time."

I sighed. Lit a candle. Sat down on the floor. And opened the box.

Item One: A Concert Wristband

From a night that smelled like popcorn, sweat, and teenage freedom.

I had glitter on my cheeks and no clue what taxes were.

The band wasn’t famous. But that night, we felt famous. We screamed every word, even the ones we didn’t know.

I looked at the wristband and smiled like I’d just found a photograph of a wilder version of myself.

Item Two: A Letter I Never Mailed

To someone I loved.

Folded three times. Smudged ink. A sentence crossed out halfway: “I wish things had been different but—”

But what? I never finished. I never sent it.

Reading it felt like opening an old wound, gently. Not to hurt myself, but to say, I remember. I healed. I’m okay now.

Item Three: A Sock Without a Twin

Naturally.

Every emotional box comes with one. It's the universe’s way of humbling you.

For a moment, I wondered if this sock’s partner had escaped. Started a new life. Opened a bakery somewhere in Paris.

I placed it on my lap like a tiny flag of surrender.

Item Four: A USB Stick Labeled “DO NOT WATCH”

Naturally, I watched.

It was a video project I started with a friend—half genius, half chaos. Mostly chaos. The transitions were terrible. Our acting was worse. But we were so proud.

I laughed. I cried. I considered starting a YouTube channel for emotional hoarders.

Then I sat back, looked at the mess around me, and realized something:

This box wasn’t just full of clutter.

It was full of proof.

Proof that I’ve lived.

Loved.

Tried.

Failed.

Started again.

I used to think avoiding the box made me strong. That strength was moving forward and never looking back.

But maybe strength is sitting with your mess. Holding it. Honoring it. Not fixing it. Just letting it exist.

We all have boxes—real or invisible.

Maybe yours is under your bed, or buried in your email inbox. Maybe it’s a playlist you haven’t listened to since the breakup. Or a hoodie that still smells like someone you’re trying to forget.

You don’t have to open it today.

But when you do, do it gently.

With snacks. And patience. And maybe a blanket for emotional support.

Because that box?

It’s part of your story.

Here’s what I’ve learned, sitting in the candlelight with my life scattered around me:

You don’t have to be “over it” to look at it.

You’re allowed

In the corner of my bedroom sits a box.

A plain cardboard box with a little dent in the side and a piece of tape that’s lost the will to stick. It’s not large. It doesn’t sparkle. But it holds something powerful: everything I’ve been avoiding since 2019.

You know the kind of box I mean.