The Day I Gave Up “Just in Case''

I Thought I Was Practical: I Used to Hold on to Everything — Old Chargers, Broken Picture Frames, Clothes That Didn’t Fit, Expired Cosmetics, Even Paper Bags From My Favorite Stores. I Told Myself I Was Smart. That Day, I Would Need Them. That Day, They Would Serve a Purpose. In my mind, “Just in Case” became a form of preparedness — proof that I was responsible, resourceful, even wise. I didn’t want to be the person who threw something away and later regretted it.

But in reality, “just in case” became a burden. One I didn’t realize was weighing me down until it nearly crushed me.

Clutter became my coping mechanism: At first, it wasn’t about fear. It felt harmless — even logical. What if the remote breaks? It’s better to keep it safe. What if I need a dress for a future wedding? Save the one I haven’t worn since college. What if the power goes out? Hold on to that broken flashlight. I can fix it.

But over time, my house began to feel like a fantasy land. Every drawer was full. Every shelf was bulging. I had boxes within boxes, filled with things I hadn’t touched in years. And worse, I couldn’t find the things I needed because they were buried under the things I needed.

Whenever life felt uncertain — and it often was — I organized instead of dealing with emotions. Rearranging gave me the illusion of control. But what I was doing was shifting the clutter, not releasing it.

The wake-up call I didn’t expect: One evening, I stumbled across a box of “spare cables” in my hallway. I landed hard on my knee. As I sat there, rubbing the wounds, something inside me snapped—not in anger, but in clarity. I looked around and realized: I wasn’t hoarding things. I was hoarding fear. Fear of the future. Fear of needing something I wouldn’t have. Fear of regret.

That moment would become my turning point.

Starting small: I didn’t dive in with black trash bags and dramatic announcements. I started quietly—with a single shelf. I opened a box of “miscellaneous devices” and realized I didn’t even know what half of them did. I threw out rusty nails, five measuring tapes, dried glue sticks, mystery strings, and a bent screwdriver. Each item was a choice: Do I own this, or is it mine?

As I worked my way through drawers, cabinets, and boxes, I noticed how emotional the process became. Things I hadn’t seen in years suddenly brought guilt. “But I spent money on this,” I would think. Or, “My aunt gave it to me.” But I realized: Guilt is not a reason to keep something. Nor is it an obligation.

Letting go of future fantasies: I found a pile of craft supplies from a hobby that I told myself I would get into “someday.” They represented the creative versions of me that I hadn’t become. I held up the bag of yarn and finally asked: If I hadn’t touched it in four years, would I really be there?

It was the day I learned to let go of the fantasy version of myself, too. I didn’t have to be a knitter, or a painter, or a DIY furniture refinisher. I could appreciate those skills without having to collect stuff to prove I could get there.

The same went for “round clothes” that no longer fit, travel guides to places I wasn’t planning on going to, and unread books I’d kept for years because they looked impressive on the shelf. I donated them all. And in return, I felt something that shocked me: peace.

The freedom was immediate: As the pile shrank, my stress level dropped. I stopped apologizing when friends came over. I wasn’t ashamed to open drawers. I could find things quickly. I had space to breathe and think.

The shift wasn’t just in my house. It resonated in my mind. I became less anxious. More focused. My energy was no longer sapped by clutter or the fear of leaving. I realized that life is always uncertain—and no amount of storage can fix that. But clarity, intention, and lightness? Those things are worth trying.

Just in case” became “just enough: Now, I don’t keep things for every conceivable scenario. I’ve learned to trust that if something unexpected comes up, I’ll figure it out. That’s what true preparedness looks like—flexibility, not hoarding.

I still make smart choices. I keep basic tools, seasonal clothes, backups for essentials. But I no longer confuse clutter with comfort.

Decluttering isn’t about creating an Instagrammable space — it’s about letting go of what weighs us down. It’s about facing the fear behind “what is” and choosing to be fully present in “what is.”

I didn’t realize how heavy my home and my heart had become until I lightened the load. And now, I’ll never go back.