Letting Go

When I left my marriage, my ex-husband threw away many of my things that had been in storage.

Not everyday stuff, but the things we keep because they hold stories. The tea sets my grandmother gave me when she was on her deathbed. My first ever ball gown. Cuddly toys I’d saved in pristine condition for decades, imagining I’d one day pass them on to my own children.

What my ex did was appalling to me then. And frankly, it still is. He should have asked.
But in the trauma of the breakup, I wasn’t thinking about any of those things. I was just trying to survive. I left our relationship with one suitcase.

And interestingly, despite the grief of the break-up, materially, I felt incredibly light. I could go anywhere. Do anything. It was just my suitcase and I after all.

I felt free.

For a while…

Later, I had to collect my share of belongings from the apartment we’d lived in. The everyday stuff, not just the storage stuff. A friend very kindly let me stay with her, and her spare lounge slowly filled with boxes of my things. It felt like the physical manifestation of everything I hadn’t yet processed. Overwhelming. Heavy. It soon dawned on me how easy it is to accumulate too much in our modern world.

At the time, I was working as a beauty editor. Every week, new products arrived — mascaras, shampoos, creams, serums. There was a part of me that loved it, of course. But there was also a deep unease about this endless drive to create more, even when there is already a perfectly good mascara and a perfectly good shampoo in existence.

After another house move recently, I found myself thinking about letting go of belongings again. Many of my things no longer fit in this new space. I have had to let go of a lot of things.

On the upside, letting go creates space. And space allows us visual rest or room to breathe. It can also allow for newness and growth. Too many things can feel suffocating, just as much as too few can feel bare.

Marie Kondo talked about surrounding ourselves only with things that spark joy. It’s a simple idea in a world that constantly tells us to want more. These days, before buying anything I ask: Do I really need this? Do I really love it? If the answer is ‘no’, I pass. Letting go, I’ve realised, isn’t always about clearing cupboards - just as importantly, it’s about relinquishing the urge to accumulate in the first place.

After our most recent move, the house didn’t feel like home until our art went up. For someone who loves beauty and colour, bare walls feel cold, not calming. Once the art was hung, the energy shifted. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t look at each piece and feel grateful. Art sparks joy.

But let’s be honest, many things we own don’t spark anything; they just get in the way.

During the move, a mid-century starburst clock I’d treasured for years went missing. I’ve woken up in the night more than once, feeling furious about it. Which is both ridiculous and completely understandable. It was just an old clock, but to me it was a thing of beauty, and its age made it all the more of a treasure.

I don’t think the answer is owning nothing. I think it’s discernment. Choosing what stays, and consciously releasing what no longer serves us.

This week, I’m donating an old printed canvas to the Zero Waste Hub. I bought it years ago when we first moved into a home without a single piece of art to our name. At the time, it served a purpose. Later, it moved into the children’s room to add colour there.

Now even that season has passed. Our children are developing their own tastes - one has a shrine to Lego, one to Messi - and neither wants this canvas anymore. To some, it’s trash. But I know that when I drop it off, someone who is where I once was - staring at bare walls and craving colour will likely find joy in it.

I’ve realised that I don’t struggle with letting go because I’m attached to things. I struggle because I’m attached to meaning. The idea of something I’ve loved ending up in a landfill causes me real distress. But when I know something will spark joy for someone else, letting go becomes generous rather than painful.

This is why the idea of buying less, wasting less, and giving more has begun to matter so much to me. Why charities like Woven Earth move me so deeply - organisations that take donated furniture and household items and use them to create homes for women and children fleeing violence. They don’t just provide shelter and safety. They build a home, with all the necessities like soap and tea cups and a kettle, plus some of the joy-sparking luxuries many of us take for granted, like soft toys on the beds, art on the bedroom walls and a child’s bike in the garden.

Despite what the magazines and screens lead us to believe, our nervous systems don’t crave luxury or status. They crave safety, warmth, beauty, and connection. When I think about it that way, it makes sense why waste feels so upsetting and why giving with care feels so regulating.

This piece began as a conversation with a friend - her story brushing up against my own. After a marriage breakup, she will move into a new home with her daughter, and they’re already imagining how they’ll make that space feel like theirs, with bright colours and textured wallpapers. A fun, fresh start. Watching her reminds me that letting go isn’t about erasing the past; it’s about choosing what we carry forward. And for some, letting go isn’t a choice at all; it’s something done in the service of safety, survival, and the possibility of a different future.

Admittedly, this Substack doesn’t end with an answer or a neat conclusion. Today, I’m still learning what stays and what goes in my life. I am definitely still trying to resist the urge to accumulate. But I am trusting that when letting go is done with care, nothing meaningful is ever truly lost. Except for my missing mid-century starburst teak clock, of course. I’d very much like it back. Some things, it turns out, are especially hard to let go of.