The Things We Keep
What do these belongings say about the selves we still hold onto?
At 7 a.m. this morning, I watched a local charity load seven garbage bags full of donations from our driveway into their van. Inside the bags were wool sweaters that never fit quite right, cocktail dresses that have outlived their use, outgrown kids’ coats, brand-new kitchen utensils gifted by PR companies, and books that deserve owners who’ll actually read them. One sunny afternoon a few days earlier, I’d decided to clean out all of our closets in an epic event that resulted in a whole lot of muttering. “Why do we have so much stuff?”
I come from a family of hoarders, so the stuff-i-ness can really trigger something in me. It doesn’t take much to make me feel constricted, imagining towers of pots and pans obscuring my path, clothes bursting out into hallways, burying us in a sea of Cat & Jack and threadbare concert tees. Catastrophic thinking at its best. My husband has a milder view of things. That’s just living, he tells me. Having stuff. Forgetting to go through it from time to time. Calling the donation center with desperation in your voice.
Seeing the full donation bags brought out my inner guilt. There was the immigrant guilt of getting rid of things that might still be useful one day. (My grandparents, though they haven’t owned a house in years, still store their furniture in my aunt’s basement, “just in case.”) And then there was the guilt of having succumbed to rampant consumerism once upon a time—trendy tops with puffed sleeves, cropped tops that made me feel self-conscious, heels much too high for me to wear without breaking a limb. The odd thing is that I’m not a regular shopper. So most of these items have been around for a long, long time; in pristine condition, just taking up space in my closet.
Maybe I feel guilt partly because I haven’t really discovered myself yet. I have all this stuff, because I’m still figuring out what I need, and what complements my life. Shouldn’t I have those answers by now, at the age of 37? I keep the bodycon dress that doesn’t fit not because I’m reliving my youth, but because I’m seized by the what-ifness of it all: What if, a decade from now, I suddenly get invited to a Real Housewives convention and I need something to wear when I meet Lisa Vanderpump?
Obviously this thinking is flawed. I spent years lecturing my mother about how she should donate her massive piles of clothing because someone else might get something out of them. Turns out, I should have been lecturing myself. But I’m not especially interested in beating up my past self about all the stuff I kept. I’ll do better in the future, trying to buy mindfully but without attaching undue morality to those choices. After all, the things I donated were a part of my life, for better or worse.
What’s true is that what I have chosen to keep matters just as much as what I’ve given away. While sorting, my hands would touch a few items and a brief smile would alight on my face. There were the killer bunny socks my friend brought back from Korea, still fuzzy after almost a decade of use. The 15-year-old contributor shirt I received after my very first publication, soft to the touch and three sizes too large, yet somehow perfect for the days when I don’t know what to wear. A purple robe my husband gifted me for our first Christmas together, brow anxiously furrowed over whether he’d picked the right thing. (He did! I loved it.)
These items won’t make any trend forecasts. They won’t fetch a penny on a resale site. To others, they are just junk. To me, they are reminders of those times when I didn’t bother to dress for the person I wanted to be, but the person I am. During my sorting, I rescued a blue sweater from my husband’s donation pile. It’s soft and a little pilly and the exact shade of his eyes when we stand by the ocean. I guess I am holding to a small part of his past self too.
On the phone with my mother this past weekend, she told me that even though she keeps getting rid of things, her closets remain stuffed anyway. Driven by her own mortality, she’s intent on purging her home of items, telling me that she doesn’t want me to be burdened with any of this when she’s gone. She views her own parents—of basement furniture fame—as a sort of cautionary tale. But what I should tell her is that her things don’t feel like a burden to me anymore.
I remember what it felt like to rustle in my mother’s closets as a kid, pulling out a lemon-colored shirt she’d packed from Vietnam or a white denim jacket from the ‘80s. Sometimes I’d wear those items in high school, thinking about how cool I looked. Later, when I was a struggling kid in college, I “borrowed” a blazer from her for a job interview. I never gave it back. Her closet, as overwhelming as it was, signified magic to me. It was a place to try on identities and feel closer to her, as if we were molting in and out of each other’s clothes.
On the phone, I told her, “Keep what you want. We’ll deal with it when we need to.”
During my hours of dumping clothes onto the bed, then refolding them into piles, my daughter wandered in. She—also a consummate hoarder—surprisingly didn’t protest when I placed the outgrown dresses I’ve sewn for her into the giveaway pile. But when I laid my wedding dress (a lacy tea dress from David’s Bridal) on the bed, she stopped me.
“Oh, Mama,” she breathed, eyes wide. “I want to wear it at my wedding!”
“But honey,” I told her, eyeing the yellowing dress doubtfully, “your style might change by then. I don’t want you to feel like you have to wear it.” What I don’t say is that my style has already changed. I fell into the vintage-mason-jar-handmade aesthetic of the late 2000s, and if I were to get married today, I’d choose something perhaps not so trendy. Like my mother, I didn’t want to burden my daughter with my things—or my past selves.
“Just promise me,” she insisted. “I love it so much.”
What was the harm? I slid the dress back into the closet, still in its plastic wrapper, vowing to research the best ways to preserve old wedding dresses. And maybe—probably—she won’t wear the dress down the line if she gets married. Even so, I think she and I will both get a sense of comfort in knowing that it’s back there, just in case.
Recent Notables
Reading
Books:
Black Candle Women by Diane Marie Brown: Three generations of Montrose women live together in tentative harmony until the youngest, Nickie, brings home a young man. This unravels the origins of a mysterious curse that has kept the Montroses from love—and destiny—for decades. A deeply felt exploration of families and secrets; my favorite topics!
Notes on Your Sudden Disappearance by Alison Espach: The title is a bit misleading (it’s not about a kidnapping or a runaway situation), but this novel really had me hooked for the first half. Espach does a stellar job describing the intimacy of girlhood and siblinghood. The last half felt a bit less compelling, because the central relationship gets less focused, but I think it’s a moving and at times, really funny novel worth reading.
Daughters of the New Year by E.M. Tran: A stirring portrayal of Vietnamese American women in New Orleans, grappling with questions of identity, ambition, and agency. This book features some unforgettable scenes, and poses nuanced, important questions about the diaspora.
Shorter Work:
“Is Traveling to Antarctica Environmentally Defensible?” (Sierra): All the Antarctic TikTok videos tell us that there’s a clamoring to this now-trendy destination, but what does it mean for the Antarctic ecosystem?
“Is This It?” (New York Times): Jessica Grose on Millennials hitting middle age—and how it’s not all it was meant to be. Plus: are any of us having mid-life crises? Curious about your thoughts on this one!
“The Humbling Tyranny Of The Photos Our Kids Take Of Us” (Romper, via my friend Lizzie!): a hilarious look at the spontaneous, weird photos
Loving
Kizik slip-on shoes: I was very well-targeted by these ads for hands-free sneakers, and I finally gave in. I like them! They can be a bit stiff at first, but they really do slip on without having to bend over, and have a lot more structure than other slip-on brands. I like all the different styles too. They make kids’ and men’s versions!
Blueberry baked oatmeal: In an attempt to take better care of myself, I’ve been lightly meal-prepping. This oatmeal makes for a nourishing breakfast, especially with a dollop of Greek yogurt on top.
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🙋🏻♀️ah yes to the midlife crisis. Kind of feeling like I never finished the 1/4 life one but here we are. If you haven’t yet listened to Glennons podcast ep with Sheryl Strayed they remind us that crisis means ‘to sift’ and it’ll make you feel better.
This post really resonated, having cleared out our kitchen prior to renovation i agonised over odd plates and cups that had do many memories attached to them. Cups and saucers used for a baby shower tea party, small crockery used by my child as a toddler. There’s some interesting research that says that we hold onto things more when we are less certain of who we are, and I think I can understand that psychologically. Perhaps it’s who I was when I hosted that tea party, or spoon fed my little one that I’m trying to hold onto a little longer!
I really enjoy reading your blogs, and especially love how you weave the past and present together 💛