Latest / Style Project: Skincare, confidence & wellness / The Heavy Box: Why We Keep Childhood Objects & How to Let Go | Style Project
Transcript
- You know that box under your bed you’ve been meaning to sort for three years? The one that smells like old paper and regret? It’s not just clutter. It’s a ghost. Let’s be real for a second. I walked into my sister’s house last weekend, and she pulled out a shoebox from her closet. Inside were crayons, some dried-out markers, and a drawing of a house with a very lopsided roof. She held it like it was made of glass. And I realized something terrifying. We are all carrying these invisible suitcases. Not the ones we pack for vacations, but the ones filled with the physical remnants of who we used to be. A chipped teacup from a grandmother who didn’t quite understand us. A stuffed animal with one eye missing. A report card from third grade where you got every star except one. We keep them because letting go feels like betraying the child who needed them. But what if I told you that holding on is actually what’s keeping you stuck in the past? What if the weight you feel isn’t love, but anchor? I spent ten years in fashion editing, surrounded by things that had to look perfect. If it wasn’t pristine, it was trash. So when I left that industry, I thought I’d hate clutter. Instead, I became obsessed with preserving everything. I kept every draft of every article, every ticket stub, every note. I treated my life like a museum exhibit that required constant curation. But here’s the thing about museums—they’re static. They don’t breathe. They don’t grow. When I started looking at those childhood objects, I saw they weren’t treasures. They were tombstones. Each item marked a moment that had already died. The crayon didn’t bring back the day I drew that lopsided house. The stuffed animal didn’t comfort me when I was seven and scared of the dark. It just sat there, dusty and heavy, taking up space in my mind. We think we’re saving our history, but really, we’re just hoarding evidence of pain we haven’t processed. There is a specific kind of guilt attached to throwing away childhood things. It’s loud. It whispers that you are ungrateful. That you are forgetting. That if you lose the object, you lose the memory. I felt this so fiercely when I finally cleaned out my parents’ attic after they moved. I found a box of my baby teeth. Yes, really. My mother kept them in a small velvet pouch. Holding that pouch, I felt sick. Not because I missed the teeth, but because I realized how much of my identity was tied to being cared for in ways that weren’t always healthy. Keeping the teeth felt like proof that I existed. That I was loved. But was I? Or was I just being stored? Let’s talk about that distinction. Storage versus preservation. One is passive. The other requires active love. Do you love the memory, or do you just love the idea of having a tangible piece of it? Because honestly, most of us are just afraid of the void that comes after we let go. Think about the last time you cleared off your nightstand. Just one square foot of clean wood. Did it feel like loss? Or did it feel like air? When I started releasing objects, I didn’t throw them away immediately. I put them in a pile. And then I waited. For two weeks, I looked at that pile every day. I noticed that nothing changed. The world didn’t end. My mother didn’t call to say I’d erased her. In fact, she called to ask why I was crying over a broken doll. And I told her. I said, 'Mom, I’m not crying over the doll. I’m crying because I’m tired of carrying it.' That conversation was harder than any box. But it was also lighter. Because once I spoke the truth, the object lost its power. It went from being a sacred relic to just… plastic and fabric. It became mundane. And that’s okay. Mundane things can be released without guilt. You know I always say glow from the inside out, literally. And part of that glow is clarity. You cannot see clearly if your vision is blocked by the debris of your past. When you hold onto objects from childhood, you are physically occupying space that could be used for new experiences. New relationships. New versions of yourself. Imagine if you treated your home like your skin. You wouldn’t leave dead cells on your face, would you? You’d cleanse them away so your pores could breathe. Your skin could renew. Emotional hygiene is the same. Those objects are dead cells. They have served their purpose. They helped you survive. But they are no longer helping you live. And living requires space. It requires room to move, to stumble, to try again. If your hands are full of yesterday, you can’t reach for today. It’s that simple. It’s also that painful. But pain is just growth squeezing through a tight spot. So how do you actually do it? How do you look at that drawing of the lopsided house and say goodbye? Start small. Pick one thing. Not the big stuff. Not the wedding dress or the family heirloom. Pick the small, insignificant thing. The ticket stub. The broken pen. Hold it. Really hold it. Feel its weight. Then ask yourself: 'What story does this tell me about who I am now?' If the answer is 'nothing,' or 'I feel heavy,' then let it go. You don’t need to destroy it with drama. You can donate it. You can recycle it. You can simply place it in a bin and close the lid. The act of closing the lid is the ritual. It marks the boundary between then and now. And boundaries are good. Boundaries are loving. Especially to yourself. You are allowing yourself to make room for peace. For lightness. For a future that isn’t weighed down by the ghosts of who you used to be. You are enough, even on bad skin days. And you are enough, even with an empty shelf. Take care of yourself, beautiful. I’ll see you next time.