It started with one drawer. Just one.
But drawers have a way of multiplying. One becomes three. Three becomes a cabinet. And before you know it, you’re knee-deep in objects that whisper stories you didn’t even know you remembered.
Some of the things are easy to toss. Expired coupons. Cracked rubber bands. A lid with no container. But other things… they sit heavier in your hand. A note. A broken watch. A Christmas ornament with a name you haven’t said out loud in a long time.
It’s funny how dust settles on everything except the past.
The house isn’t messy in the obvious way. But there’s a kind of quiet clutter that builds up over time—more emotional than physical. It hides in the spaces between what was said and what wasn’t. It fills up rooms with sighs, traditions, and memories stored behind shut doors.
So I clean gently. Slowly. Not to erase, but to make space—for breath, for light, for peace.
Too much change all at once can feel like an earthquake. I’m not here to tear walls down. I’m just trying to open a window.
And maybe that’s why this process feels bigger than just cleaning.
Because it is.
Every scrub feels like a conversation I never got to have. Every bag I take out is filled with things I never chose but somehow carried anyway. And every time I pause to decide what to keep, I realize I’m not just curating a house—I’m curating who I want to be, going forward.
There’s someone here who watches me work. Quiet. Thoughtful.
Doesn’t say much, but sees more than I realize.
And sometimes, when I catch the look in their eyes, I wonder if maybe for the first time… they see me. Not the version of me that used to echo through these halls—but the one who stayed, broom in hand, trying to build something soft in the rubble.
Maybe I’m not just making room in this house.
Maybe I’m making room in myself—for who I’ve always been underneath the mess.
Until next time,
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