As someone who aspires to embrace minimalism, my version of seasonal cleaning unfolds like this: I daydream about tidy drawers, clear countertops, and spacious rooms. Then reality hits—I realize we own way too much stuff. This triggers a mini-meltdown. I start barking orders at my family to just get rid of things. Soon, I come to the sobering conclusion that my efforts are futile. I accept that my home will resemble a clearance section at a toy store or a sporting goods outlet for the next decade and a half. I mutter “Forget This Sh*t” and throw in the towel.
I can almost schedule these “let’s declutter everything” outbursts. First, there’s the pre-holiday purge, preparing for an influx of items we don’t need, followed by the post-holiday panic of “Where on earth will we put all this?” Then comes spring, when I feel pressured to de-junk just because everyone else seems to be. And let’s not forget the “I just binge-watched a home improvement show and now I’m dissatisfied with my space” despair, coupled with the frequent hormonal-induced rants of “Why am I the only one who does anything around here?”
Regardless of the occasion, it always plays out the same way. I begin with optimism and lofty goals. I clap my hands and adopt a cheery, overly enthusiastic tone, channeling my inner cheerleader, “Alright, team! Time to clean! We’re tossing things out! We’re donating! Ready, set… let’s go, team!” My family stares at me blankly for a moment before launching into the familiar “But do we have to?” whines.
Yes, my dear little hoarders, we must. I pull trash bags from the cabinets and drag boxes up from the basement. For a few hours—well, maybe just a few minutes—it feels like we’re making progress as we sort through items to donate and toss. Books find their way onto shelves, clothes get folded, but before long, remnants of past bad decisions emerge to mock me. The broken toy sets, countless baseball cards, and that ridiculous robot I bought during a moment of panic—all of it starts to haunt me. Why, oh why, did I spend money on that?
Before I know it, sweat is trickling down my back, and the rooms appear messier than before since everything is strewn about for sorting. We are all frazzled. Clearly, the only solution is to relocate.
As my kids play with long-forgotten toys they unearthed from the depths of their closets, I spiral into an existential crisis. How did we accumulate this avalanche of stuff? There are children out there who have nothing, and we’re drowning in X-Wing fighters and Pokémon cards. Why can’t I just toss out the makeup from my wedding—over a decade ago? When will I ever read Cervantes again? And those low-rise jeans? When did I even fit into those? Who am I, and why do I have all this?
That’s it! I resolve to adopt a full-on minimalist lifestyle. I will declutter to the point where we could fit into a tiny house. We don’t need all this stuff—it’s just “stuff” after all. It clearly isn’t bringing us joy. I’ll take on the Buddhist mindset of non-attachment. That’s the answer!
But wait! I can’t just give everything away! What if I suddenly need turquoise eyeliner? What if my son discovers I tossed his prized Charizard card? And those X-Wing fighters could be worth a fortune someday—at least, that’s what my husband keeps telling me.
Perhaps I just need a new strategy. Except I’ve already tried every organizational method imaginable. I’ve invested in storage containers, bookshelves, and pretty bins. I even bought a fancy label maker for the chaos!
Here’s the truth: good intentions alone don’t work magic, and I’m not exactly motivated. Cleaning is my least favorite task, and despite my desire for a well-organized home, I soon find myself buried under a mountain of broken toys, trading cards, and forgotten action figures.
In the end, I realize I’ve developed a deep disdain for my home. It will never resemble something out of a design magazine, not when it’s covered in chipped paint and crooked photos. The reality is, my family is a bunch of messy creatures. With every box of junk cleared, it becomes harder to ignore the layers of dirt hidden beneath. Clean windows only highlight the peeling paint on the sills, sweeping under the appliances reveals the truth—we live like pigs, and our home has become a graveyard for insects. Some truths are better left undiscovered.
Forget moving; I’d rather set the place ablaze and start fresh. But that’s unrealistic. So, I say “Forget This Sh*t” again and surrender. Maybe I should just shove everything into a closet and enjoy a glass of wine outside, far away from this clutter.
Mission accomplished. Task complete.
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Summary
Seasonal cleaning can feel overwhelming and often results in frustration rather than satisfaction. Amid the clutter and chaos, it’s easy to feel detached from the process, leading to existential questioning about the accumulation of “stuff.” Ultimately, embracing a minimalist mindset can be complicated, and while we strive for an organized home, the reality of family life often leads to more clutter than clarity.