I was drowning in things, so I chose space over emotion.

I used to think that memories lived in things.

That old concert T-shirt from the night of my first heartbreak, the half-faded slogan my dad bought me on a road trip, the stacks of notebooks I couldn’t even bear to reread — everything in my house told a story. But the problem was: it didn’t whisper. It screamed.

It started small — just a box here, a drawer there. College notes, every birthday card I’d ever received, a broken camera from 2009 that I swore I’d fix one day. My house looked nice to others, but inside my closets and under my bed lived a suffocating museum of who I used to be. And every time I tried to make room for who I was becoming, the past pushed back hard.

I didn’t think I had a problem. Until one morning, I tripped over a storage bin while trying to get ready for work. I remember screaming — not in pain, but in despair. My small apartment felt like it was closing in on me. I stood there in the mess of fallen photos, mismatched socks, and childhood trinkets, feeling overwhelmed rather than nostalgic.

That night, something changed. I stood in my room, looked around, and asked myself: What would it feel like to let it all go?

At first, the thought terrified me. These things were my safety net. If I let them go, did that mean those memories no longer mattered? Would I lose the people connected to them? Would I lose parts of myself?

But another voice in me—quiet, brave—asked, what if holding on is preventing you from living fully now?

So I started with a single drawer. One by one, I grabbed each item and asked: Does it support who I am becoming? Or does it just anchor me to who I was?

Letting go wasn’t easy. Some nights I cried over old lines. Some mornings I would second-guess myself and pull things back out of the donation bag. It wasn’t just physical deterioration—it was emotional excavation. I wasn’t throwing away junk; I was peeling away layers of identity.

But with each box I gave away, I noticed something strange was happening.

I could breathe again.

The space around me grew, and so did something inside me. Where clutter once demanded my attention, peace now resided. Where guilt whispered from dusty corners, clarity spoke in clean surfaces.

I replaced the shelves of “stuff” with a single painting I loved. I swapped out the endless decorative knick-knacks for light, air, and plants. For the first time, my home felt like a sanctuary, not a storage unit.

But the biggest change wasn’t aesthetic. It was internal.

Aside from the emotional clutter, I learned to hold onto my memories differently. I no longer needed the scraps of tickets to remember that beautiful night in Paris. I didn’t need my ex’s hoodie to remember the warmth of that relationship. Those memories were in me — not in things.

Choosing space over emotions wasn’t about coldness or detachment. It was about trust. Trusting that what mattered would remain, even without physical evidence. Trusting myself to move beyond the version of me frozen in those things.

Minimalism, for me, wasn’t about perfectly white walls or counting how many shirts I owned. It was about emotional expansion. It was about honoring the past without letting it rule it.

And here’s what they don’t tell you: letting go is a door.

A door to living a deeper life. To making intentional choices. To discovering what really matters.

After decluttering, I found myself more present in conversations. I started new creative projects. I even traveled lighter — literally and emotionally. With less to carry, I lived life with more ease.

Do I miss any of the things I gave up? Sometimes.

But what I’ve gained in return — a peaceful home, emotional clarity, freedom from the weight of “what ifs” — is far more valuable than a box of nostalgic memories.

I still keep a few meaningful things today. A letter from my grandmother. A framed photo of my siblings. A book of poetry that saved me in my darkest hour. But everything else? It had served its purpose — and letting it go was my way of saying thank you.

Because sometimes the sweetest thing you can do for your past is to let it go.

I used to be buried in baggage, believing it made me whole. But I’ve learned that space — real, sacred space — creates space for healing. And in that space, I’ve found a calm, strong version of myself.

I’m no longer drowning.

I’m floating — light, free, and finally able to move forward.