Somewhere Between Keeping and Clearing

A midlife inventory of what stays, what goes, and what depends on the day

I can’t quite decide if I keep things too long or clear them too fast.

The truth is, I’m situationally both.

I hate outside clutter. Hate it. Visual noise makes my nervous system twitch. I want countertops clear, floors visible, and surfaces calm. I want my house to look like no one lives here… despite the very real evidence that many people absolutely do.

Open my pantry, though?

That’s where the illusion starts to crack.

Because while the outside looks serene, the inside tells a different story. Cabinets and closets look like the aftermath of two raccoons fighting over unresolved childhood issues. Drawers don’t open so much as exhale. Things fall out that I forgot I owned, needed, or emotionally assigned meaning to in 2007.

And then there’s the garage.

Recently (and before he broke 7 ribs and shattered a collarbone), my Aussie Man led a full-scale, no-nonsense garage takeover. I mean massive clean-up. Organization. Systems. Zones. Shelves. The kind of effort that makes you feel both grateful and slightly exposed.

But here’s the part that matters: I dove in too. Not delicately. Not nostalgically. I purged shit I’d been holding onto not just for years, but for decades. Not everything (I’m not a monster) but enough that we had to call in a hauler. That felt both unhinged and incredibly right.

There were moments of hesitation. A few “wait, do we need this?” reflexes. But mostly? Relief. Physical, emotional relief. Like I was finally agreeing to stop storing old versions of myself in boxes.

I was impressed with us. Proud, even.

Then later, I changed out of my work clothes (aka jammies) and into real clothes (actual hard pants)… and reached for my favorite belt.

A belt I bought at Marshall’s when I was fifteen.

It’s from the late-ish 1900s (you know, the mid-80s…which sounds fake, but here we are). Black. Covered in grommets. Extremely adjustable. And yes, I still have it. Yes, I still wear it. Because it still works. Because it still fits. Because apparently this is where my inner minimalist draws a firm boundary.

So what is that?

It’s not logic. It’s not style. It’s not even sentimentality in the Pinterest-memory-box sense.

It’s midlife.

I’ve let go of a lot. Old reminders. Old versions of myself. Painful things that carried more weight than wisdom. I’ve released relationships, roles, expectations, and entire identities that no longer belonged to me.

That kind of purging feels sacred.

But physical stuff? That’s where it gets nuanced.

I’m deeply sentimental about kid things… and also deeply relieved when I let them go. Some objects feel warm and alive. Others hold weird, sticky energy… memories I’ve already processed but apparently boxed up anyway.

Releasing them isn’t sad. It’s clarifying.

Objects carry stories. Not in a woo-woo way (although maybe a little). In a “who was I then, who am I now” way. And sometimes clearing a shelf clears something emotional you didn’t realize you were still holding.

Recently, I toured a house for sale where the owner was organized in every way. Every drawer. Every closet. Every label facing forward. It was… impressive.

And a little unsettling.

Not because it was bad… but because it felt so tightly controlled it made me feel something I couldn’t quite name. Awe? Suspicion? The urge to open a random drawer just to see if anything was human in there?

There wasn’t a single junk drawer (yep, I checked). Not one. No obligatory catch-all. No “I don’t know where this goes yet but future-me will decide” space. It felt like a home that had skipped an important developmental milestone.

Meanwhile, my house has very clearly demanded the function of a few junk drawers. Not chaos… purpose. Drawers that know their role. Batteries. Rubber bands. Mysterious keys. Takeout utensils. That one tiny screwdriver that somehow rules us all.

Those drawers don’t just exist. They tell you where to put things. They offer relief. They say, “you don’t need to solve this right now.”

Standing in that perfectly organized house, I realized I don’t want a life with zero junk drawers. I want just enough places where things can land without being interrogated.

That’s when it clicked.

Midlife isn’t about minimalism or maximalism. It’s about discernment. It’s about knowing what brings calm versus what brings connection. What needs structure versus what needs grace. What stays because it still feels alive, and what goes because it belongs to someone you used to be.

I don’t want everything. I don’t want nothing. I want what fits for me now.

And occasionally, that includes a 40-year-old grommet belt, a pantry that looks fine until you open it, and the knowledge that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is call a hauler and let it go.

If this hit a nerve, open one cabinet or drawer (even a junk one) today. Keep one thing that still feels like you. Let go of one thing that quietly doesn’t. And if you want, come tell me which one surprised you most.

---

#RGG, #RealGirlsGuidetoMidlife, #Purge #JunkDrawer #MidlifeDiscernment #EmotionalDecluttering, #JunkDrawerWisdom

We’ve earned every wrinkle. Might as well make more laugh lines together.
Let’s connect: Instagram | Facebook | LinkedIn | Website | Book

And if you’ve read the book and loved it, a quick review on Amazon helps keep it moving.