What We Keep Keeps Us

The surprising freedom in releasing what never fit

You know that moment when you're staring at a duo of funky side tables during a move, and suddenly realize the heaviest things to pack aren't actually things at all?

That's what happened last weekend.

Surrounded by half-filled boxes and the chaos of my impending house move, I found myself frozen—not over the couch or kitchenware—but before two gaudy side tables and a matching coffee table I'd dragged through two houses and two small offices, debating their fate with an intensity that seemed wildly disproportionate to the situation.

They were just tables.

Tables that never matched my style.
Tables I never actually liked.

Yet there I was, having an existential crisis over particleboard and veneer.

😬

When Objects Become Anchors

We don't just own things. We create relationships with them.

That mug isn't just ceramic; it's Sunday mornings with your grandmother. That book isn't just paper and ink; it's who you were when you first read it. That furniture isn't just wood and metal; it's the home you were trying to create when you bought it.

Our possessions form a physical map of our history, our hopes, our identity. They anchor us to versions of ourselves that may no longer exist.

Which is exactly why letting go can feel like drowning.

As I circled those tables for the third time that day, a question suddenly surfaced: "Why am I fighting so hard to keep something I never even wanted?"

I stepped back, really seeing them.

These tables—with their oddly curved legs and that strange woody weird finish (with an off orange hue in some places)—had never been me. Not when I bought them hastily to fill my first house. Not through the second move when I told myself they were "just temporary." Not even in this current space where they'd been strategically hidden beneath lamps, or plants, or books to disguise their appearance.

The question wasn't whether I valued having tables. The question was whether I needed these specific objects that never actually reflected who I was.

What Our Attachments Whisper About Us

Every object we cling to tells a story about our beliefs.

Sometimes, the story is beautiful. We keep things that connect us to love, joy, and meaning.

But sometimes the story reveals our fears: we keep things because we fear we won't be enough without them.

We keep things because we don't trust ourselves to make better choices next time.

We keep things because we're afraid of who we might become if we let go.

That night, with my best friend (and roommate) out and the house quiet, I sat on the floor beside these tables and asked myself questions I'd been avoiding:

• "What am I afraid would happen if I let these go?"

• "What decision am I trying to avoid by keeping them?"

• "Will keeping these objects move me toward or away from creating a home that actually feels like me?"

The answers surprised me.

I kept those tables not because they brought me joy or functioned well, but because getting rid of them meant admitting I'd spent money on something that wasn't really me. They preserved a version of myself I was afraid to acknowledge—the uncertain me, the people-pleasing me, the me who bought what was available (now) instead of what I loved (and had to wait for).

But sitting there in the quiet, another truth emerged: those parts of us don't define us unless we keep dragging them into our future.

Honoring What We Release

What if I approached letting go not as waste or failure, but as a sacred act of growth?

Growth that acknowledges past choices without being imprisoned by them. Growth that recognizes when something has served its purpose—even if that purpose was to teach us what we don't want. Growth that makes space for what's next by releasing what never really fit.

The next morning, I told my best friend I'd decided to let the tables go. He nodded, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, as if he'd been waiting years for this furniture epiphany.

"I almost want to write them a dramatic farewell speech," I quipped, laughing... it’s not entirely a ridiculous idea! There was something appealing about commemorating the transition.

Instead, I took a moment to silently acknowledge what these tables had taught me: Buy what you love, not what's available. Trust your initial reaction. Your space deserves items that reflect who you are, not just what you can afford.

This tiny mental ceremony transformed letting go from failure to freedom.

What Remains When We Release

The irony of attachment is that holding on too tightly to what doesn't serve us prevents us from creating space for what might. Our homes cannot welcome what's coming if they're still cluttered with what doesn't belong.

I realized something unexpected: the things that truly matter require no deliberation. They're not in the "maybe" pile. They announce themselves immediately as essential, not because of what they are, but because of how perfectly they align with who we truly are.

The rest?

They're just things pretending to be significant.

I don’t regret letting those tables go. But I did keep one of those ridiculous photos, laughing at how seriously I'd considered wrapping them in moving blankets like some precious heirloom.

The lesson remains. But now it carries a different weight—not about furniture or decorating or that particular purchase, but about the surprising lightness that comes when we trust ourselves enough to release what never truly belonged to us in the first place.

What might you discover about yourself if you asked not "What should I keep?" but "What am I ready to release?"

Because in the end, letting go isn't about what leaves our homes. It's about what returns to our hearts when they're finally uncluttered enough to receive it.

About Alex

I’m equal parts old soul and curious wanderer, a farmer boy at heart, and a writer whenever I can corral my ADHD. Ultimately, I write for those who crave rest in a world that never pauses.

As a political psychologist, yoga therapist, and integrative coach—anchored by both research and lived experience—I delve into questions of identity, connection, and wholeness, which are the foundation of my Substack publication, Life as I See It.

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