Latest / Style Room: Skincare, confidence & wellness / Why You Can’t Throw Away That Stuffed Bear: The Weight of Childhood Objects | Style Room
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of panic that hits you when you stand in front of an open cardboard box, holding something from your childhood that you know you should let go of. It feels less like cleaning and more like losing a part of yourself. Hi there. I’m Robin. Take a deep breath with me. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Good. I want to talk about the box. You know the one. It’s sitting in the corner of your bedroom, or maybe it’s under the bed, waiting for a weekend you’ll never quite get around to finishing. Inside are things from before you were who you are now. Before you had your own apartment, your own credit score, your own opinions on what constitutes a good day. I see so many women struggling with this exact moment. They aren’t just holding onto toys or clothes; they are holding onto time. When I was a nurse, I saw how stress showed up on people’s skin. Breakouts, eczema flares, dullness that no serum could fix. But lately, I’ve realized that the stress isn’t always coming from work or relationships. Sometimes, it’s coming from our stuff. Specifically, the stuff we can’t bear to lose because it’s tied to a version of us that no longer exists, but whose memory we desperately want to protect. Let’s look at the emotional weight here, not just the physical space. When you hold a small, worn-out stuffed animal from when you were six years old, you’re not just holding polyester and stuffing. You’re holding the feeling of safety you had in your parents’ house. You’re holding the nightlight that stayed on during thunderstorms. You’re holding the person you were before the world told you to be tougher, quieter, or more polished. And letting go of that object feels like betraying that little girl. It feels like saying she didn’t matter anymore. I remember having a blue sweater. It was itchy, bright blue, and had a hole in the elbow that my mother had stitched over with mismatched thread. I hated wearing it. It scratched my neck every time I moved. But I kept it for fifteen years. Why? Because it was the only thing my father gave me before he left. It wasn’t about the sweater. It was about the anchor. We use objects as anchors to stabilize our identity when everything else feels fluid. If I keep this box, I am still the daughter who lived in that house. If I keep these books, I am still the student who believed in those stories. If I throw them away, I have to admit that chapter is closed. And closure is terrifying. As someone who has spent years helping people understand their skin, I can tell you that our bodies change constantly. Cells shed, heal, regenerate. We are literally not the same person we were last year. So why do we expect our belongings to remain static proof of who we were? It’s a contradiction. We embrace the fact that our faces will age, yet we cling to plastic dinosaurs and paper dolls as if they are monuments to our eternal youth. It’s okay to pause here. Let that sink in. You are allowed to feel grief for a time that can never return, even if that time was perfectly ordinary. We need to talk about the word 'heirloom.' It sounds precious, doesn’t it? Something valuable passed down through generations. But sometimes, we call objects heirlooms when they are actually just burdens disguised as duty. I had a client, Sarah, who was terrified to donate her grandmother’s collection of porcelain figurines. She told me, 'If I don’t keep them, no one will remember her.' But here’s the truth, and I want you to hear this clearly: remembering someone does not require keeping their clutter. Memory lives in the heart, in the stories you tell, in the recipes you cook. It does not live in dust-collecting knick-knacks that take up shelf space in your modern apartment. When we hold onto these items out of guilt rather than love, we are letting the past dictate the present. We are curating a museum of ourselves instead of living in a home. This ties back to what we discussed last week about digital minimalism. Remember how I talked about how your phone gallery traps you in the past? Keeping physical objects is the same trap, just heavier. You scroll through photos, or you look at boxes, and you think you are honoring your history. But often, you are just avoiding the present. You are staying in the lobby while life is happening in the room beyond. Let’s bring this back to wellness, because this is where my dermatology background really helps me see the connection. Stress creates inflammation. Clutter creates cognitive load. Your brain is processing the visual noise of every item in your field of vision. When you have boxes of childhood memories overflowing in your closet, your nervous system stays in a low-grade state of alert. You are carrying the weight of ten thousand decisions you haven’t made. Glow from the inside out, literally. When you clear the physical space, you create mental room. I’m not saying you need to live in a sterile, white-box studio. I’m saying that every object in your life should earn its place. Does this teddy bear bring you joy today? Or does it bring you anxiety about whether you’re being sentimental enough? If it brings you anxiety, it’s not a treasure. It’s a taskmaster. And you deserve to put down the heavy lifting. When you release these objects, you aren’t erasing your past. You are making space for your future self to breathe. Think about your skin. If you clog your pores with too many products, nothing works. You have to cleanse. You have to remove the dead layers to let the new cells thrive. Emotional cleansing is no different. You have to let go of the dead weight to let your current life breathe. So, how do you actually do this? How do you open that box without crying for three hours? First, start small. Don’t tackle the attic. Pick one drawer. One shoebox. Set a timer for twenty minutes. Tell yourself you only have to make decisions for twenty minutes. Second, take photos. This is my favorite trick. If you are holding a drawing your child made, or a ticket stub from a first date, or a letter from a friend who moved away, take a high-quality photo. Save it in a dedicated folder on your computer labeled 'Memories.' Then, physically let the object go. The photo preserves the image; the object only preserves the dust. You get to keep the memory without the baggage. Third, ask yourself: 'If I met this person again, would I buy this for them?' Not if it was your grandma. Not if it was your mom. If you met this stranger in a thrift store, would you pay money for it? Would you want it on your shelf? If the answer is no, then you are holding it out of obligation, not desire. Obligation is heavy. Desire is light. Choose light. And please, give yourself grace. You might cry. That’s okay. It’s okay to pause. Cry into your hands. Drink some water. Then continue. You are not throwing away your history. You are curating it. You are choosing what gets to travel with you forward, and what gets to stay behind where it belongs. I want to leave you with this thought. You are the common thread connecting all those versions of yourself. The little girl in the blue sweater. The teenager with the messy diary. The woman who is listening to this podcast right now. You are the constant. The objects are temporary. When you let go of a childhood toy, you are not abandoning the child who loved it. You are honoring her by becoming the adult who can carry her memory lightly. You are proving that you are strong enough to move forward without needing physical crutches. That is a powerful act of self-love. This week, I invite you to look at one object in your home that makes you feel stuck. Just one. Ask yourself why it’s there. Is it love? Or is it fear? Then decide. Keep it, gift it, or release it. Make a choice. Action is the antidote to anxiety. Your home should feel like a sanctuary, not a storage unit for your regrets. Your skin should feel cared for, not burdened by routines. Your mind should feel clear, not crowded. You deserve a life that feels light. You deserve a home that feels like yours. Thank you for trusting me with your time today. I’m so glad you’re here. Let’s keep going, together. Take care of yourself, truly. I’ll see you next time. Bye for now.