The Chair That Almost Broke Me Literally and Emotionally.

Everyone has that one chair.

You know the one.

It’s been with you through three apartments, two bad relationships, and one identity crisis.

It’s ugly. It creaks. It doesn’t match anything you own. But you can’t get rid of it, because somehow, somewhere along the way, it became part of your story.

My chair? Her name is Carol. And she’s a menace.

Let me tell you about Carol.

Carol came into my life during college. I found her on the curb next to a dorm dumpster, looking like someone had just ended a long-term relationship with her and tossed her aside. Her cushion was lumpy. Her arms wobbled like a tired dancer. And one leg was shorter than the others, so she tilted like she was always slightly judging you.

Naturally, I took her home.

I didn’t have a car, so I dragged her two blocks and up three flights of stairs. I scraped my elbow. I knocked over a mailbox. I’m pretty sure I gave a pigeon a nervous breakdown. But I got her home, plopped her in my bedroom, and said, “Welcome, Carol.”

Why, Carol? I don’t know. She just looked like a Carol. Someone who'd smoke menthols and tell you your boyfriend isn’t good enough for you.

Carol became my everything chair.

She was my study throne, my ramen-eating throne, my anxiety-spiraling throne.

I cried in that chair. Laughed in that chair. Napped in weird positions that doctors would definitely not recommend.

Years passed. I graduated. Got a job. Got another job. Moved cities. Each time, I’d look at Carol and think, This is the move; I’ll finally leave her behind.

But I didn’t.

She always came with me. She was my one constant—tilted, creaky, and impossible to justify keeping. Friends asked why I still had her. I’d wave it off. “Oh, she’s just... sentimental.” But the truth was, she was more than that.

Carol represented every version of me I’d been since that first year of college.

The messy, uncertain, hopeful versions.

The ones that didn’t know how to fix things or decorate apartments but still tried anyway.

And then... she betrayed me.

It was a quiet Saturday. I had just made tea. I sat down with a sigh, ready to scroll aimlessly and pretend it counted as self-care.

And then—CRACK.

Carol gave up.

One of her legs—her brave, uneven little legs—snapped clean off. I fell to the side in slow motion, tea sloshing onto my sweatpants, my dignity bouncing on the floor next to me.

It wasn’t just a collapse. It was a dramatic exit.

It was Carol saying, I’ve done my time. Let me rest.

I stared at her in shock. Broken. Off-balance. Still ugly.

And I did something weird.

I cried.

Not because of the fall (okay, maybe a little because of the fall), but because it felt like the end of something. Like life was gently, or not-so-gently, telling me, It’s time to let go.

I sat on the floor next to her for a long time, remembering all the seasons we’d survived together.

The late-night heartbreaks.

The apartment is full of furniture from Craigslist and hope.

The solo dance parties when I was too poor to go out but too alive not to celebrate something.

Carol had held me—literally and metaphorically—through it all.

And now, she was done.

So I did what any emotionally unstable person would do. I gave her a proper goodbye.

I played some sad music.

I wrote her a farewell letter.

I took a picture with her like we were old college roommates parting ways.

Then I carried her, one last time, to the curb.

Full circle.

I stood there for a second, hands on my hips, and whispered, “Thanks, Carol. You were the worst chair and the best listener.”

The next day, she was gone.

Probably to another college kid, or maybe to a landfill. Either way, I hope she’s somewhere peaceful. Or at least level.

Since then, I’ve bought a new chair. It’s modern. Stylish. Doesn’t squeak. It matches the rug. People compliment it. It’s a good chair.

But sometimes, when I sit in it, I think about Carol.

About how objects become symbols.

About how the ugliest things sometimes hold the most beauty.

About how growing up means learning when to hold on—and when to let go.

So here’s my cosy, strange little message to you:

If you’ve got a Carol in your life—a chair, a mug, a hoodie with holes, or something that doesn’t make sense but makes you feel at home—that’s okay.

You don’t have to explain it.

You don’t have to let go until you're ready.

And when you finally do? Cry if you want. Make it weird. Give it the goodbye it deserves.

Because sometimes the broken, leaning, outdated pieces of your past are the ones that carried you the longest.

Even if they were terrible at being chairs.