Latest / The Beauty Edit: Skincare, Makeup, Wellness & Confidence / Why You Can’t Throw Away That Stuffed Animal: Letting Go of Childhood Objects | The Beauty Edit
Transcript
- That crinkly, slightly stained t-shirt you’ve kept since 1998? It’s not just fabric. It’s a anchor, and I know exactly why you’re terrified to let it go. I want you to picture a specific box for me right now. Maybe it’s under your bed, tucked away in the back of a closet, or sitting on a high shelf where the dust bunnies have started to organize their own little community. It’s that cardboard box filled with the things we were too young to understand but too attached to throw away. The chipped plastic toy. The drawing from third grade that looks like a brown smear unless you squint. The hair ribbon that hasn’t seen sunlight in fifteen years. Let’s get real for a second. We talk a lot about minimalism here. We talk about clearing clutter to clear our minds. And sure, sometimes a pile of old mail is just trash. But this? This is different. This is the stuff that feels like part of your history. When I ask my listeners if they have these boxes, almost every single hand goes up. Almost every voice gets quieter. There is a heavy, quiet shame attached to holding onto childhood objects. Like if you keep them, you’re admitting you haven’t moved on. Like if you toss that worn-out teddy bear, you’re betraying the little girl who needed it to sleep through thunderstorms. But I’m here to tell you that keeping it doesn’t mean you’re stuck. It means you’re human. We are collectors of memory, and sometimes those memories come with zippers and tags. Today, we aren’t talking about decluttering your home. We’re talking about decluttering the guilt around your past. Because there is a massive difference between being haunted by an object and being held by it. One drains you. The other sustains you. And knowing which one you’re dealing with changes everything. You might think I’m being overly poetic, so let’s bring in a little bit of that lab-coat logic I love. Your brain is not a filing cabinet. It’s more like a messy, enthusiastic artist’s studio. When you were seven years old, your world was huge and scary and beautiful all at once. A specific blanket wasn’t just a blanket. It was a shield. It was the physical proof that you were safe when the lights went out. Psychologists call this 'transitional objects,' but I prefer to think of them as emotional anchors. Neurologically, touching something familiar from your past triggers a release of oxytocin. It lowers cortisol. It signals safety to your nervous system. So when you hold that old hair clip or run your finger over that smooth, cracked stone you found on a beach trip twenty years ago, you aren’t just looking at junk. You are literally accessing a state of calm that existed in your body at that time. It’s a shortcut to feeling grounded. This is why throwing it away feels like losing a piece of yourself. Because in a way, it is. That object holds a version of you that no longer exists. The little girl who loved dinosaurs isn’t here anymore. The teenager who wrote poetry in margins of her notebooks is gone. But the stone? The stone remembers. And as long as you keep it, you’re keeping a door open to that younger self. That’s not hoarding. That’s honoring. There is a profound dignity in saying, 'I was small then, and I needed this. And it helped me survive.' Here is the lie society tells us: that moving forward means leaving everything behind. We are sold this idea of the blank slate. Start fresh. Delete the past. Be new. But life isn’t a hard drive wipe. Life is a layer cake. Every experience sits on top of the last one, and if you scrape off the bottom layers, the whole thing collapses. I remember talking to a listener named Sarah last week. She was crying because she couldn’t bring herself to donate her mother’s old apron. She felt guilty because her mother had passed away, and keeping the apron felt disrespectful to her independence, yet letting it go felt like forgetting her entirely. She asked me, 'Ashlee, how do I honor her without living in her kitchen?' That question broke my heart, but it also gave me the answer. Honoring isn’t about occupying space with the object. Honoring is about acknowledging the connection. You can take a photo of the apron. You can wrap it in tissue paper and put it in a box labeled 'Love' rather than 'Junk.' You can say thank you to it. The pressure we feel to either keep everything forever or purge it completely is false. It’s binary thinking in a gray world. You can keep the memory without letting the object dictate your daily routine. You don’t have to hang that childhood poster on your wall to prove you liked it. You just have to remember that you did. Let’s talk about the guilt. It’s the heaviest thing in that box. We feel guilty for keeping things because we see others who have seemingly effortlessly detached from their past. We scroll through Instagram and see perfectly curated rooms with nothing but white walls and a single plant, and we wonder what’s wrong with us. Why can’t I just be done? Why does this stuffed rabbit still make me cry? Trust your skin, not the algorithm. And trust your heart, not the trend of radical detachment. Just because someone else has processed their grief or their nostalgia differently doesn’t mean your way is wrong. Some people write letters. Some people burn things in a ritual. Some people keep a shoebox under their bed until they die. None of these are moral failings. They are coping mechanisms. And some coping mechanisms are softer than others. Holding onto childhood objects is often a way of trying to hold onto a time before responsibility. Before bills. Before heartbreak. Before the world asked you to be strong. If you keep that toy, maybe it’s not because you’re a child. Maybe it’s because you’re tired. And being tired is okay. Admitting that you need a soft place to land is brave. It takes courage to say, 'I am not ready to let go of the thing that made me feel small and safe.' Don’t let anyone shame you for needing comfort. Comfort is not weakness. It is survival. Now, I know some of you listening are screaming, 'But Ashlee, I WANT to let go! I want to free up that space!' If you are ready to release these objects, here is how you do it without feeling like you’re erasing yourself. Do not throw them in the trash. That is a violation. Instead, create a ritual. Take one object out. Sit with it. Hold it. Thank it. Say out loud, 'Thank you for keeping me company. Thank you for helping me sleep. I am big enough now. I am safe enough now.' Then, decide its fate. Does it need to go to a museum of your life? Take a high-quality photo. Scan the drawing. Record a video of you holding it. Digital preservation is valid. Or, give it to someone who needs it. Donate the clothes to a shelter where a child will find joy in them. Pass the jewelry to a niece who will wear it with pride. The act of giving it away transforms it from a burden into a gift. You are no longer hoarding; you are circulating love. And if you can’t let go yet? That’s fine. Put it in a bin. Label it. Close the lid. Tell yourself, 'I am not discarding this. I am pausing it.' Give yourself permission to wait. Time changes things. Sometimes, in six months, that object won’t feel heavy anymore. And sometimes, it will always feel heavy. Both outcomes are acceptable. You get to decide what peace looks like for you. We spend so much time trying to glow from the inside out, literally applying serums and drinking water, but we forget that inner glow is also about inner integration. You cannot integrate your past if you are fighting it. You cannot integrate your childhood if you are ashamed of what you kept. Your history is not clutter. It is foundation. Those objects are the bricks you used to build the house you live in now. You wouldn’t hate the bricks. You would appreciate them. So look at that box. Look at the t-shirt. Look at the toy. See them not as chains, but as steps. You climbed up to get here. And you did it with help. You did it with love. And you deserve to keep that love, however it manifests. Whether you keep the box under the bed or pass it down to your daughter, the decision matters less than the intention. Make the choice with kindness. Make it with curiosity. Make it with the understanding that you are a complex, layered woman who deserves to carry her story gently. Not all stories need to be told loudly. Some just need to be held quietly, in the dark, until you are ready to shine again. I’m Ashlee Nunez. Keep your boxes if you need them. Keep your secrets if you must. But never keep the guilt. You are doing better than you think. Talk to you next time.