I started decluttering the way I do most things, confidently and with absolutely no plan. I told myself I was just going to clean one small area. One drawer. One box. Something manageable. Instead, I sat on the floor holding things I haven’t used in years, negotiating with myself like each object had feelings.
I don’t know why January does this to people. Every year, suddenly, we all decide we need to clean our lives. Reset. Purge. Become a new person with fewer possessions and better habits.
I never really understood the whole “spring cleaning” thing until I worked in retail here in the U.S. Probably because where I came from, seasons were not really a thing. I’m originally from the Philippines. Chinese Filipino descent. We don’t have winter or spring. We just have hot and raining. Sometimes both at the same time.
But anyway, back to decluttering.
I started with the things I brought back from my mother-in-law’s apartment. I told myself I was keeping them safe for her. Preserving them. Being responsible. Being thoughtful. And then, slowly, it dawned on me that she no longer cares about them.
Not in a sad way. In a peaceful way.
She already kept what mattered. The rest are just things that finished their job.
Which means now they are my problem.
I don’t want to throw them away. I want to donate them. Because another man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Also because I need to believe someone else will love these things more than I currently do.
For a brief moment, I thought about selling some of it.
This was my first mistake.
I tried Poshmark. People out here offering a dollar like I’m going to carefully package something, print a label, drive to the post office, and feel fulfilled for spare change. Excuse me, dear. At that point, I’d rather donate it and get a better tax write off and some peace.
Then I tried eBay. Which now feels less like a marketplace and more like everyone’s collective garage sale from the late 90s. No one knows what anything is worth. Including me.
And then there is Facebook Marketplace.
Facebook Marketplace is not for women my age. It is not for people who value safety, sanity, or sleep.
Bartering starts at 9 p.m. for reasons I will never understand. People message “Is this still available?” and then disappear like ghosts with commitment issues. Honestly, that part I can live with.
What I cannot live with is when they actually show up.
Sometimes they arrive in a car full of people. Why. Why are there four of you. Are you here to buy a lamp or overthrow a small government. Please just take the item and leave.
Sometimes they come to the house and start sniffing around instead of doing a quick handoff. Sir, this is not an estate sale. This is a transaction. Take the chair. Hand me the cash. Do not explore.
The entire time I’m wondering if the money is counterfeit and whether this is how I end up on the evening news for trying to sell a side table.
Once I decided to meet someone in a CVS parking lot because that felt safe. They ghosted me. I sat there like an undercover cop who forgot why she was there.
Anyway, where was I going with this.
Oh right.
Decluttering.
Or menopause.
Or capitalism.
One of those.
I completely forgot my point halfway through, which is apparently my new personality trait. Menopause brain does not gently fade things out. It takes the thought you were holding and throws it into traffic.
Standing in the middle of all that stuff, I realized something. Decluttering isn’t really about being neat. It’s about deciding what version of your life you are willing to keep dragging forward.
Some things I hold onto because I might need them. Some because someone else once needed them. Some because letting go feels like admitting that chapter is actually over.
Maybe that’s why January makes people clean. Not because of resolutions. But because something about a new year makes you look around and think, why am I still carrying this.
So now I’m trying to do it differently. Slowly. With humor. With less guilt. Keeping what still feels useful or meaningful. Letting go of what I’m only holding onto out of habit, fear, or a misplaced sense of responsibility.
I still forget what I’m doing halfway through rooms. I still sit on the floor negotiating with objects like they have emotions. I still open drawers and immediately need a nap.
But I’m learning this part too.
Aging, apparently, is not about having less stuff.
It’s about knowing what deserves to stay.
And also about accepting that sometimes you will forget your point mid-sentence, laugh at yourself, and keep going anyway.
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