Decluttering my life, both inside and out, has been quite the jagged journey. Actually, it feels more like peeling an onion. I’m puling away layer after layer, crying most of the time, and nothing seems to come off cleanly.

Just when I think I’ve hit the white, edible meat, I find more purple paper stuck on everything. So I try again, sniffling and stinging, but determined to go on. 

When I hold an object in my hand, be it clothes, books, or trinkets, I try to be curious about why it is so hard to let go of. I want to understand what the object means to me, and feel whatever I need to feel.

What stuff really means

Usually I can tell when there is a part of me still trying to gain a sense of identity through my stuff, still thinking an object can protect me from being misunderstood or misrepresented. I’ve mostly learned how to relax that idea and gain comfort from knowing that my identity is defined by God, not stuff.

I can let go of things that are only there to prove something. Sometimes that is enough to help me completely separate from the item and donate it. But if I still feel the sting of the onion, I know there are more layers to remove. 

Objects from the past are often hard to let go of. As I’ve said before, they seem to hold the memories and energy of the past. I can hold a trinket that I loved as a child and feel that moment again. Sometimes it’s painful, and I feel the sadness contained inside. But there are also positive moments that fill me with interest and appreciation for my past, younger self.

I can hold an item that I got with my husband on our honeymoon or at a convention, and feel the energy of that place and the original pull to buy it. I can even hold a more recent purchase, something odd I found at the thrift shop, and sense that spark of amusement all over again.

I like it but I don’t want it

Not all items that make me feel happy also bring joy. This is a small but important distinction for me.

I can enjoy how something looks or smile at the memory it brings, but I don’t necessarily feel a spark in my soul or even a true desire to keep it. I am often filled with fear of losing the experience rather than joy in remembering it.

As I write this I am thinking of a large, hand painted castle that my mom bought on our trip to London when I was a young child. It has sat in different parts of her house, and then in mine, for decades. I remember feeling the magic in that item when I was young. I would walk my fingers up and down the steps, imagining that I lived in that wind washed castle by the sea.

It felt so real to me as a child that I can still access some of that magic in the present. I held that item in my hands just the other day, trying to decide its fate. A part of me knew that I wanted to let it go and another part wanted to be a child again, living in a castle. 

By making an open and curious space to notice my complicated feelings about that item, I was able to gain more distance and clarity. I noticed how I was trying to hold onto a certain feeling I could get from my stuff, instead of letting that go and recognizing that my things couldn’t save me.

The child part of me didn’t want to grow up and live in a world that had no magic in it; didn’t want that part of myself to be discarded. I could almost hear her little voice in my ear: “Shouldn’t we just keep a few things, to remind us? To make sure we can find our way back?”

I listened and could understand her concerns. In some ways I even agreed with her. This castle represented my struggle with many sentimental items, feeling both a pull toward the past and a projection of fear into the future. When I used those books or toys, I could feel their energy impacting me. The moment seemed to have more spark and life.

As a child, I believed that my things could transport me. They could save me. They could give me what I could not give myself. As an adult, some of that belief remained. I worried that without those special items to remind me of myself, I would lose my experiences and what they meant to me.

I also feared for moments in the future when those items would be needed again to inspire and guide me. Would I be a husk of myself without them? Another boring adult moving numbly through the world?

Real trust

Sitting with those fears, I knew that they stemmed from a distrust of myself. I worried that when important life moments came, whatever they were, I would not be enough on my own—I would need the energy from those objects to pull me through or charge me up. My fear said that every item I had ever loved must be there to guide and preserve me and I could not afford to lose even one.

I was right, of course. I can’t ultimately trust myself to ensure everything will be okay. I will definitely mess up at some point and I am not actually strong enough for all that could come my way. Maybe others are, but I am not. 

At first this seems like a devastating revelation. Very scary. No wonder I wanted to keep everything that felt like safety and strength. I have heard clients say it often in my office — that they worked so hard, tried everything they knew to do, and were not only exhausted with the work but defeated by every failure.

I completely get that. I felt the same. I tried hearing myself out with compassion and making promises to myself that we would survive and be okay and that saying goodbye to a momento did not mean saying goodbye to any part of myself. It felt nice in the moment, but not real and lasting. I knew I couldn’t be trusted. My track record of being a broken and inconsistent person was proof enough of that. 

It wasn’t until I began the journey of deeper faith that I realized the error in my logic. I was right that I couldn’t be trusted to correctly handle things in my own strength. My error was in thinking of that as a problem. Without God, of course, as an all-loving Mind and Power far beyond my own, it was a problem.

What I had to realize, through trial by fire and falling on my face so many times, was that being weak was not a problem. It actually positioned me to hear from God and receive His grace. I could admit to being weak and in need of help, which meant that I was humbled enough to look beyond myself to God. It sounds very nice, and it is, but it was also very painful. 

Freedom in faith

Sometimes freedom can be less like running through a field of flowers and more like the moment when you finally pull your hands, broken and sore, out of the shackles.

Through the searing pain you can feel the relief. Your hands are finally free. Maybe running through the fields comes later, but first you just need the relief of having someone to take care of you. 

As I was learning that my weakness was not something to be afraid of I was also coming to the realization that if my faith was genuine, my identity was more secure than I could have imagined.

I was a child of God, called and adopted into His family. I was part of Christ’s body, the Church, and had a treasured place as a servant of my Lord. This all amazed me. I had heard it before in Church of course, and had even tried to live it out in past missions work. But it had been words, elusive and without meaning, even though it sounded good. At any rate, the ideas were now clicking in my mind, in my spirit, and I understood.

I could declutter these sentimental, needless items, not because I could trust myself but because I could trust God. These objects didn’t define me because God did.

And since He is immovable and eternal, he won’t get old and musty like toys. His power will not corrode and cannot be thrown away. What a relief! It is helpful when I have compassion for myself, but even more powerful when I become aware of God’s compassion and mercy.   

Staying true to what I believe is right has not been easy. I have bowed and broken in the forceful winds of other voices and opinions. I’ve gotten stuck inside myself, becoming lost in the internal voices and fears. And I have felt the pain of those decisions.

But when I am connected to God, I can acknowledge the truth of my past pain without carrying it into the future. I can see that a painted castle will not save or destroy me.

When I am hidden in Christ, I look out on the world with clearer eyes. There is no stinging fog, and I don’t need to hide behind objects. I know that the hard moments will come, and so will the beautiful, and I will survive both.

Being in the world

I want to navigate this world with truth, courage, and compassion. What I need for the journey is not contained in a sentimental book or figurine; it is Christ in me — transforming my heart and soul, sustaining my faith — and not something that circumstances can shake apart. I know this and trust it completely, feeling connected to something deeper and more expansive than an object can ever be. 

The fact is, an object is nothing but what it represents. It is not the memory itself, just the reminder. I hold the memories, the energy, the sense of wonder within me; and now I am trusting them all to God. 

I remember the joy and excitement of other objects that I no longer have but will never forget, and I know those memories and feelings are safe. I can feel them without the object as a conduit. So I say goodbye to the castle, but not to my childhood magic. In fact, I now understand that my ability to play and imagine is so much larger than a castle could contain, and even more enjoyable than a favorite story. It is a gift from God. And perhaps (without getting too mystical), it is a glimpse of something eternal. 

True freedom came with the understanding that it wasn’t the object that held the energy and power.

All of the emotional charge I felt from those items was not stored up in their porcelain or paper, projecting to me from the past. I was giving them my energy in the present moment. I was the one imbuing them with power and creating their ultimate meaning. Like a superpower gone wrong, everything I touched was turning to gold and I could no longer tell what was really valuable to me. 

Letting go of sentimental items has taught me so much about myself and about God. I have learned to peel the onion in a way I never thought possible, and feel grateful for every tear and layer. Now I am creating a space that is open, not because it is bare but because it is ready to be filled with whatever God wills. Perhaps it will hold items again, but it will also be able let them go with a happy heart.

Have you had a similar experience? Do you have any insights to share with us? Let me know in the comments. I’d love to hear from you! 

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Disclaimer: This is a blog, which contains a mixture of my current knowledge and opinions. The information is accurate to the best of my knowledge but may contain omission, errors, or mistakes. I am a psychologist licensed to practice in the state of Washington, but this article does not create a psychologist-client relationship. I am providing psychological information and my own opinions for informational purposes only, and anything I present should not be seen as psychological, emotional, or medical advice or treatment. You should consult with a mental health professional or your primary care physician before you rely on this information or take any action. I reserve the right to change how I manage or run my blog and may change the focus or content at any time.