"Taking Inventory"

Marina stood in the center of her childhood bedroom, surrounded by boxes, dust, and memories. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and forgotten years. It had been five years since she last set foot in this room, and even longer since she’d truly seen it.

Her mother had passed two months ago. A gentle woman with a sharp tongue and a loving but distant heart. Marina had come home to sort through the remains of her mother’s life, and in turn, confront her own.

The closet door creaked as she pulled it open. Inside hung faded dresses, jackets too formal for daily wear, and a pair of her mother’s favorite heels—scuffed at the toe, but still standing tall. Marina smiled. Her mother had always worn heels, even in the kitchen. Said they made her feel in control.

She took a breath and pulled out a small notebook from her backpack. On the cover, she’d scribbled in permanent marker:

Taking Inventory – Life, not just things.

She flipped to the first page.

1. What do I want to keep?

2. What have I outgrown?

3. What am I still holding onto that no longer serves me?

This wasn't just about the physical stuff. Marina wasn’t here to just box up china and photograph paintings. She was here to take inventory of the pieces of herself she had left behind—and maybe, just maybe, decide what to carry forward.

She started with the bookshelf.

Rows of dusty paperbacks and old encyclopedias lined the shelves. Some were hers—Nancy Drew mysteries, half-read diaries, and a battered copy of The Secret Garden. She picked it up, ran her fingers over the worn spine, and remembered reading it by flashlight under her blanket.

She smiled again, more softly this time.

“Keep.” She whispered, placing it in a pile.

Further back, she found a photo album. Pages stuck together by time, but still intact. There was a picture of her seventh birthday—balloons, cake, her dad still around back then, her mom in those same scuffed heels. Marina in a princess dress, beaming.

She stared at the photo, the smile frozen in time.

They were happy that day. Weren’t they?

She sighed. Maybe they were. Maybe not. But the moment was real. She closed the album and placed it gently in the “keep” box.

The next drawer was harder.

Letters. Dozens of them. Some were from friends long gone, others from her father—unanswered birthday cards with vague apologies written in neat handwriting.

She held one up. It was from when she was fifteen.

“I know I wasn’t there like I should’ve been. But I never stopped loving you, not once.”

She read the line again. Then again.

She didn’t cry. Not yet. But she folded the letter carefully and placed it back in the drawer.

“Maybe.” She whispered. “Not now.”

By noon, the room was a mess of half-filled boxes and open drawers. Marina sat on the floor, surrounded by decisions.

Her stomach rumbled, but she ignored it. She was too deep now. Not just in memories, but in herself.

She opened the last box in the corner of the closet. Inside were old journals. Hers.

She hesitated.

One was labeled 2008. The year everything changed. The year her parents divorced. The year she started cutting class and skipping meals.

She opened it slowly, expecting pain. But what she found was a letter—to herself.

“Dear Me,

I don’t know what’s wrong. Everything feels too big. Too loud. Mom doesn’t look at me anymore. Dad says he’ll visit, but he won’t. I feel like a mistake. But maybe, one day, I’ll feel okay again.”

Marina put the journal down and pressed her palms into her eyes.

She had forgotten about that letter. Forgotten about that version of herself—small, hurting, but still hopeful enough to write it down.

She didn’t need to keep the whole journal. But that page—she carefully tore it out and folded it neatly.

“Keep.” she said, a lump in her throat.

By the end of the day, the sun had dipped low, casting golden stripes across the floor. The boxes were labeled now:

Keep

Donate

Trash

Maybe

But there was one more pile—new. Unlabeled.

Marina looked at it. It wasn’t full of things. Just a single frame. A photo of her mother, younger, smiling at something out of frame. And beside it, a blank journal.

She picked up the pen.

New Inventory

1. I want to keep my softness.

2. I’ve outgrown my fear of being seen.

3. I no longer need to carry guilt that isn’t mine.

4. I still believe I can grow.

Marina placed the photo on the windowsill and the journal beside her bed.

The room felt lighter. Not just cleaner—but clearer. Like it had taken a deep breath along with her.

She didn’t finish everything that day. But that wasn’t the point. Taking inventory wasn’t about being done—it was about being honest.

And for the first time in years, she felt a little closer to whole.