One of my major objectives this year has been to declutter my home. I’m talking about a thorough clean-out, not just a quick tidy-up. This journey goes beyond merely sorting through toys, shredding outdated paper files, and discarding clothes that no longer fit. It’s about the aspiration—and the belief—that it’s possible to lead a lighter, more joyful, and fulfilling existence with less. It’s about retaining what truly matters and finding the bravery to part with what doesn’t. The significance of certain items, like a 5K T-shirt or a concert ticket stub, doesn’t define the memories they signify. Regardless of whether I keep them, I still ran that race and enjoyed that music.
As I navigate each room, assessing the myriad objects that fill my life and asking myself whether to keep or toss, I’ve realized that the motivations behind our attachments—guilt (like the kids’ stuffed animals), hope (my size four jeans), nostalgia (the shoes from my wedding), and sadness (my late dog’s bumblebee costume)—are often the same reasons that empower us to eventually let go of these items.
Eight years ago, during a family vacation in Colorado, I crafted a bowl in a pottery class. I chose this class out of necessity, as I was five months pregnant and most activities at the resort were off-limits. Just walking up the hill to the spa for a prenatal massage left me breathless due to the altitude.
That bowl was both ugly and beautiful. It was flawed and yet stunning because it was created by my own hands. The resort kindly shipped it home, and to my surprise, it arrived intact. It survived multiple moves before finding its place on the small white shelf above my bathroom toilet (because really, where else would it go?).
I should have tossed it upon its arrival (it was quite hideous), yet I clung to it because it represented a summer filled with the bliss of my second trimester. The nausea and fatigue of the initial months had faded, my belly was round but manageable, and I had ample time to daydream about baby names, diaper bags, and strollers. It felt like magic.
But my connection to that bowl runs deeper. While first pregnancies are often enchanting, this was not technically my first. A year and a half earlier, during another family vacation—a Caribbean cruise—I discovered I was pregnant after taking a home test. I rushed to my doctor, who cheerfully advised me to enjoy myself but warned against drinking the water in Mexico, promising an ultrasound when I returned.
What I remember most about that trip, aside from the night I suffered a miscarriage, is the abundance of Christmas cookies everywhere. They were impossible to avoid on the ship!
Just days after returning home, I found myself in the hospital. Despite the pain and discomfort I endured during the cruise, tests showed I was about eight weeks pregnant. Unfortunately, the ultrasound revealed otherwise.
Heartbroken and frightened, I counted backward from 100 as I lay in the operating room, uncertain about whether I’d wake up with one less fallopian tube or something worse. Fortunately, I emerged intact, but the relief was short-lived. The tissue discovered in my uterus indicated a molar pregnancy, which meant the “pregnancy” was merely a jumble of abnormal cells that would never develop into a baby.
If that weren’t enough, a month later, I was seeing a gynecological oncologist. The tricky thing about molar pregnancies is that the abnormal cells can grow back and turn into choriocarcinoma, which is a fancy term for uterine cancer.
For the next two months, I underwent weekly chemotherapy injections, followed by a year of blood tests to monitor my hormone levels. Even though the cancer was treatable, it could have been fatal if it returned unnoticed and spread to my liver, abdomen, lungs, or brain.
In a way, my first pregnancy held a certain magic. It was an elaborate illusion—a vanishing act unlike anything I had ever experienced. I longed for a baby, but instead, I faced cancer, and everything I had thought was real, safe, and normal disappeared before my eyes.
I never particularly liked the lopsided, vomiting tulip bowl I crafted during that summer in Colorado, but I kept it because I believed it embodied the hard-fought journey I had undertaken to heal, trust, and ultimately forgive myself. I wanted to remember the magical second trimester of a healthy pregnancy and the joy of finally welcoming my baby.
However, I ultimately realized that the bowl held none of that significance. It was just an unattractive object, so I decided to let it go. With or without it, the memory of that magical time will always be mine.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the emotional journey of decluttering possessions that hold sentimental value. The author shares personal experiences of motherhood, loss, and healing, ultimately emphasizing that memories are not confined to material objects. By letting go of unnecessary items, one can embrace the joy of simpler living while still cherishing the past.