Whatever else might be going on in my life – work, family, chaos or calm – there’s a hum of activity beneath it all: the ongoing task of clearing. Not cleaning (though there’s that, too). But the compulsive (for me) and repetitive sorting, shifting, letting go. Not easy to outsource - your baggage is your baggage metaphorically or not – and not something that’ll ever be finished. Just an ever-evolving Tetris game of Stuff.
Some days it feels satisfying. Other days, like managing a revolving door at a party I never planned to host.
I’m not a hoarder. (I don’t think.) I’m relatively organised. I know the rules: the colour-coded storage bins, the one-in-one-out strategy, the No Buy Januarys, the “Does it spark joy?” mantra. I’ve read the books. I’ve watched the shows. (Yes, Stacey Solomon, I’m looking at you.)
But for me, clearing isn’t a one-time catharsis. It’s a constant, low-level negotiation with things. A rolling edit. A deeply emotional game of whack-a-mole.
Especially with kids. Especially in a world where overconsumption is the norm. Especially when you’ve closed a business, brought the others ‘in-house’, packed up a shop and a showroom, lost a parent, inherited the emotional weight of wardrobes, crockery, filing cabinets, and grief.
When we moved out of our London pad into this bigger house – with a garden, a garage, even a shed or two – we joked about all the empty areas, cupboards we couldn’t imagine ever filling.
We did. Of course we did, and astonishingly quickly. Because space expands. The universe abhors a vacuum, and so, apparently, do families with growing children. In come the hand-me-downs, the art projects, the multipacks, the impulse purchases, the redundant cables, the birthday party goody bags, the outgrown everything.
And at the same time, there’s the emotional equivalent: inbox overwhelm, calendar creep, the mental tabs left open. So many of us are full to the brim with obligations, questions, background noise, and belongings we don’t quite have the time or energy to sort.
Clearing isn’t just about making space in a drawer. It’s about making space in your mind. It’s about breathing room. It’s about agency. But bossing it is not as simple as many would have us believe. Spring cleaning? It sounds so light and fun and feather duster-y. In reality it’s like negotiating a ceasefire between your aspirations and your memories, with an heirloom tea set and a pile of outgrown wellies as collateral. When I was a child we kept said wellies to foist on unsuspecting guests who didn’t know about the obligatory muddy walks. One version of me would like the do the same but… clear-headed zen me says, firmly, ‘no’.
Lately I’ve been on Vinted more than Instagram. Rehoming. Editing. Giving things another life, giving things away – take it please, take it! There’s satisfaction in it, yes – but also weariness. Even donation isn’t easy these days: charity shops are overwhelmed, resale platforms are saturated, and digital clutter is a beast of its own.
And I know how this might sound. Talking about too much stuff in the middle of a cost-of-living crisis – at a time of rising rents, food banks, and far too many kids going hungry – could seem tone deaf. And yes, buying ‘less but better’ is a privilege. Cheap things are rarely ethical or sustainable, and for many, even the option of choice is a luxury.
But I don’t think this is just a privilege problem. It’s a huge modern life problem. A design problem. An emotional and ecological one. We live in systems that encourage us to create, sell and accumulate – information, responsibilities, stuff – often without giving us the time, tools, or support to process and let go. And the result is a kind of overwhelm that shows up not just in our homes, but in our inboxes, our heads, our landfills, and our nervous systems.
So I’m asking: does everyone feel like this? Is this just how we live now? Is there such a thing as a healthy relationship with stuff?
In traditional Eastern philosophy, balance is everything. Yin and yang—opposites in motion—depend on one another to create wholeness. Light needs shadow. Intake needs release. So maybe what we’re missing isn’t restraint, but rhythm. A practice of conscious exchange: for everything that comes in, something gently flows out.
I don’t want a minimalist museum. I don’t want a rigid capsule life. And no, I don’t want to stop acquiring things – because change is good. Newness is inspiring. Our homes should evolve as we do.
But what I do want is flow. A softer, easier, ongoing rhythm of editing. A sustainable process of conscious intake and intentional release. I believe it’s possible. (Unless everyone else knows something I don’t?)
What I’m dreaming of is a space that feels calmly ordered. Considered. Clean, not sterile. Lived in, not overrun. A place that William Morris might look at from the Arts & Crafts Afterlife and agree that everything in it is indeed beautiful and/or useful. A space that supports who we are now, not just who we’ve been. A place that leaves room to grow – not just to store.
So The Great Clearing continues. Each round is a little more conscious. A little more honest. A little lighter. And maybe, somewhere in all this shifting and sorting, we’ll land on a version of abundance that consistently feels good. That party I never planned to host? See you there. I always loved revolving doors.
With you in the edit,
Henrietta
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