It’s just a few days after Christmas, and here I am, staring at my house like it’s a life-sized game of Tetris, with pieces I have absolutely no idea where to put. The task before me is monumental: pack up my home, get it ready for inspection, and somehow, miraculously, make it all happen before I fly to India. Simple, right? Except it’s not. Not even close.
I start the day ambitiously, tackling three spaces at once—the garage, the upstairs landing that needs painting, and my walk-in wardrobe. Rookie mistake. Within an hour, my head is pounding, my patience is gone, and my house looks more chaotic than when I started. It’s like I’ve unleashed a tornado, but instead of Dorothy and Toto, it’s me in leggings, clutching a paintbrush in one hand and an old sweater I can’t part with in the other. Honestly, even Marie Kondo would throw her hands up and walk away at this point.
I pause and do the only thing that seems remotely sane: I clear the dining room table. Just the table. One surface, one tiny victory. And it feels glorious. I can see the wood again, and for a moment, I convince myself I’ve got this. Of course, the rest of the house is still a disaster, but I decide to reward myself with something that always helps me find my footing: writing.
When Memories Hide in Clutter
As I wade through my stuff, I quickly realise this is about more than just packing. Every box I open, every drawer I rifle through, feels like opening a time capsule. There’s the top I wore on that disastrous first date. There’s my boys’ old Lego set, the one I swore I’d never step on again, and here it is, mocking me. Each item carries a memory, and with each memory comes a wave of emotion that crashes over me like an unexpected tsunami.
I try to ride the waves, but let’s be honest—it’s messy. Sometimes I laugh; sometimes I cry. Occasionally, I find myself doing both simultaneously, which must look absolutely ridiculous. But this is where I am: mid-fifties, physically fit (thankfully), and knee-deep in a task that is equal parts cleansing and chaotic. I’m grateful to have the energy to do this on my own, but let’s not romanticize it—this is hard, humbling work.
Finding Humility (and Humor) in the Mess
Something about packing up your life makes you realise how absurdly attached you are to random objects. Why am I holding onto the hideous vase a distant relative gave me in 1992? Why do I own three fondue sets when I’ve never made fondue? And why, oh why, did I think it was a good idea to start painting and packing and decluttering all at once? I have to laugh because if I don’t, I might cry again, and I’m trying to pace myself on the tears.
But I do know why I’m doing this. Letting go here, in this nurturing space that has been my home for over a decade, feels important. This house has held so much of my story, and clearing it feels like honoring the past while making room for the wonderful things I know are coming my way in 2025.
Writing gives me a chance to breathe, to step back from the chaos and make sense of it. It helps me process the emotions that rise like a tide—sometimes gentle, sometimes relentless. I remind myself that these e(motions)—energy in motion—are a natural part of clearing space. As much as I’d like to think I’m in control, the truth is, I’m just here for the ride, trying to keep my sense of humour intact.
Small Wins, Big Lessons
Clearing that dining room table taught me something important: start small. One surface, one drawer, one box at a time. It’s not about doing it all perfectly or all at once. It’s about finding those little wins that keep you moving forward. Each cleared space is a reminder that I’m making progress, even if it doesn’t feel like it in the moment.
This process isn’t just about letting go of clutter. It’s about creating space—for growth, for joy, for whatever comes next. As I pack up my house, I’m not just saying goodbye to things; I’m saying goodbye to old stories, old identities, and old expectations. And that, my friends, is no small feat.
Embracing the Waves
When the tsunami of emotion hits, I grab my pen and write it out. Writing helps me remember that these waves, as overwhelming as they feel, will pass. It reminds me to breathe, to laugh at the absurdity of it all, and to trust that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be—surrounded by chaos, covered in paint, and slowly, steadily clearing space for what’s next.
And you know what? That’s enough. One box, one memory, one laugh-cry at a time, I’m moving forward. Here’s to finding humour, humility, and maybe even a little joy in the mess.
The Balanced Equation 