Let me preface this by saying: I am not a hoarder. I’m actually deathly afraid of becoming one. But somehow, I’ve ended up with an attic full of memories (read: buckets of stuff), a garage that can’t fit both cars, and a house full of furniture that could probably tell a better life story than I can.
There’s a fine line between “sentimental” and “featured on an episode of Hoarders: Emotional Edition,” and I’m walking it.
There’s a beast of a dresser that’s been with me since the beach house days. It’s roughly 40% wood and 60% pure sentiment. One drawer sticks, another only opens if you bribe it with a candle and a soft song, and the side door swings open on its own like the ghosts of my past are trying to get my attention.
It’s heavy as sin, scuffed to oblivion, and borderline haunted—but it reminds me of a different version of myself. A different season. And no matter how many times I curse its weight while moving it (again), I just can’t bring myself to let it go.
My grandmother’s sewing table matches absolutely nothing in my house. It doesn’t even pretend to go. And I don’t sew on it—I have a modern table with wheels and storage and cupholders and probably Wi-Fi. But every time I think about getting rid of Mom’s table, I get a knot in my stomach the size of a humpback whale.
Suddenly, I’m back in her sewing room, small and wide-eyed, watching her whip up curtains, costumes, and magic with just fabric and a foot pedal. And just like that, I find yet another random corner in my house for this table that serves no purpose, clashes with everything, and will—without a doubt—outlive us all.
So why do we keep these things? Because they’re not just things—they’re time capsules. They hold memories, emotions, versions of ourselves we’re not quite ready to let go of. Letting them go feels less like decluttering and more like deleting chapters of a story—or worse, throwing away someone else’s.
And maybe, deep down, I’m clinging to the hopeful (if slightly delusional) idea that these items will mean something to my kids someday… even though, realistically, they’re probably walking through my house right now mentally cataloging what they’ll have to haul to the curb when I’m gone. Or worse—carrying the guilt of tossing it that I can’t stomach now.
I get it. I really do.
But for now—the haunted dresser, the attic full of memories, the sewing table with no purpose—they stay.
Because I remember. And that’s enough.
They remind me where I came from. They make my house feel lived-in and loved—not showroom perfect, but memory-perfect.
Blessings y’all – Amy
