I took spring cleaning to a whole new level this year. It started with my overflowing closet, admittedly more out of necessity than a true desire to declutter. I had broken one too many hangers while trying to force new space to appear in an already-crammed storage area. Heaping loads of tanks and leggings onto my mattress, I began to sort piles according to three designated categories: keep, donate, and trash. One item after another, I saw my belongings dwindle before my eyes. It felt good, freeing, refreshing, almost therapeutic to let go of the things I no longer used on a daily, monthly, or even yearly basis.
After seeing the progress I’d made in my bedroom and feeling its surprising and liberating effects, I was hooked. I moved on to other areas of the house. I even ventured so far as to clear out the Tupperware cabinet, which had forever served as more of a hassle than it had been purposeful. Opening the door to find one piece was like playing a game of Jenga, just praying that the entire collection wouldn’t collapse onto the kitchen floor.
I spent months dedicating any free time I had to my new project of shedding all the excess I’d accumulated throughout my life. I counted as I bagged and boxed my items and, ultimately, gave or threw away over 1,000 things.
Yet even after sorting through each room, drawer, and storage container, I still felt a sneaking suspicion in my soul that I had more work to do. Other areas of my life deserved the same mindful consideration as my home.
I glanced at my phone. One social media app after another stared back at me.