staceybooks

It’s 11:00, and I’m staring at my house like it’s a battlefield. Today is supposed to be the day – the day I finally purge everything we haven’t used in the last 3 – 6 months.

Sounds simple, right? Wrong. This isn’t just cleaning. This is a mission. A solo mission. And I’m dreading it like a kid who just realized summer break is over.

See, my husband is usually the fearless warrior in these situations. He can march into a closet, look a dusty old box straight in the eye, and declare, “We don’t need this.” Then…POOF…it’s gone. No hesitation. No regret.

Me? I’m not wired like that. I’m the sentimental dreamer who looks at a cracked mug and thinks, “But what if I turn this into a flower pot someday?” I’ll hold up a sweater I haven’t worn in five years and whisper, “But what if neon orange becomes the next hot fashion trend?” I’m basically the ‘what if’ queen.

And apparently, that applies to crockpots too.

Yesterday my husband gently reminded me that I currently own three large crockpots, one small crockpot, and one “fancy” crockpot with three separate sections. He casually suggested maybe we could give one to my brother-in-law and his wife.

I swear to you, it was like he asked me to cut off my right leg.

“What do you mean we have too many crockpots?”

The man is talking about survival essentials! What if we have a chili cook-off? What if I host Thanksgiving for 200 people? What if the apocalypse happens and the only thing standing between us and despair is my army of crockpots simmering hope, beans, and cornbread?

This is how my brain works. Rational? No. Entertaining? Absolutely.

And then there’s the Recovery Fest T-shirt from 2023. Never worn. Not once. But every time I see it, I think, “Don’t throw it away – you might wear it someday!” Except it’s 2025, and the shirt has lived a longer, fuller life in my dresser than I ever will at a 5K. At this point, it’s basically a cotton hostage.

Here’s the truth: I get attached to stuff that doesn’t need me. Chargers with no devices. Candles I’ll never light. Spices that expired when MySpace was still cool. I keep them because deep down, I tell myself, “Just in case.”

But you know what I’m realizing? “Just in case” is clutter in disguise. All that stuff doesn’t just take up space in my house – it clutters my peace. And maybe the reason I’m dreading today so much is because this purge isn’t just about crockpots and T-shirts. It’s about letting go – of the past, of the “maybe someday” version of me, of the security blanket that stuff pretends to be.

So yes, I’m stalling at 11:00 with my coffee in one hand and a trash bag in the other. But I know what has to be done. Because life is lighter when we let go. Sometimes it’s a shirt. Sometimes it’s a crockpot (though probably not all of them, let’s not be dramatic). And sometimes it’s the idea that holding on makes us more prepared, when really it just makes us more weighed down.

So today, I’m choosing to let go. Even if it feels like giving away a crockpot is giving away a piece of my soul. Even if I have to whisper to my closet, “May the odds be ever in my favor.”

Wish me luck, friends. Send prayers. And maybe snacks. Preferably something that can be cooked in one of my five crockpots…just in case.