This Is Completely Shit, But It’s Worth It — Unpacking the Boxes of My Old Life

Where to start.

That’s been the question rolling through my head for months. Not just about this blog. About everything. Life. Healing. Moving forward.

I moved into this house a year ago. The garage still holds the proof that I didn’t finish moving in. A pile of boxes — crooked, dusty, shoved into a corner like they might disappear if I left them long enough.

I had plans for those boxes. They were meant to be unpacked, repacked, neatly organised into clear storage tubs. Labelled. Categorised. Controlled. I was going to sort it all out — both physically and mentally.

But here we are. Twelve months later. And I’m finally ready.

Ready for what? You might think it’s just clothes, books, or old kitchen bits. No big deal.

But those boxes aren’t just things. They’re time capsules. They hold two entire lifetimes: my childhood and my marriage.

They hold the versions of me I ran from.

The things I packed up in a rush because facing them felt like drowning. Photos. Trinkets. Receipts from lives I tried to convince myself were good ones. Even my 18th birthday card from my mother — that one hit hard. To someone else, it would be a sweet keepsake. For me, it felt like a slap.

I opened that box and wanted to vomit. Not because of what it was — but because of what it brought back. My mother in a care home. Me barely hanging on. Just scraping by after escaping a home that didn’t feel like one. A new flat, a new job, and a nervous system still fried. I was shakier than I realised. Faking normal. Faking strong.

That’s one item. From one box. And there are over forty more.

The worst part wasn’t the boxes. It was the anticipation. Unlocking the garage, standing there staring at them like they might bite. I’ve tried before. Got through a bag, maybe a single box, and then the panic would creep in. I’d shut the door again, pretend I had other things to do.

But today I kept going. Slowly. Box after box. Pulling things out. Making decisions I’ve avoided for years.

Some things made me pause. Receipts from places I no longer remember going. My school leaver’s book with messages from people I haven’t seen in a decade. Wedding flowers — dried, brittle, still holding some twisted shape of a day I barely recognise anymore. Letters from friends who disappeared when life got hard.

Back then I wanted to keep it all — reminders of who I’d been. Now? I’m not so sure.

I want to forget.

Not in the “erase my past” way. But in the “I’m tired of it following me around” way. In the “I want a clear space inside my head” kind of way. But letting go of the object feels like letting go of the memory. And sometimes, that memory is all that made the pain feel worth it.

Still, I opened the bin. And one by one, things went in.

I expected a wave of grief. Maybe sadness. Guilt. Anger. But there was none of that.

There was just stillness.

And in that stillness, I realised something important: I don’t need them anymore. I’ve already carried the memories that mattered. I’ve done the surviving. I’ve lived the lessons.

No amount of paper, pressed flowers, or crumpled letters will give me anything I don’t already hold.

I cleared as much as I could today. Not all of it. But enough to feel something shift. Enough to know I’ll go back in again. And next time, it’ll hurt a little less.

Because here’s the truth:

Letting go isn’t some beautiful, peaceful moment. It’s shit. It’s uncomfortable. It stings. But when it’s real, when it’s deep and honest, it doesn’t always come with tears — sometimes it comes with a quiet click inside you. A click that says, this part is done.

And maybe that’s what healing really is. Not the big dramatic cry. Just being ready to open the bin and throw it in.

If you’re in the middle of your own unpacking — physical or emotional — you’re not weak for struggling. You’re not behind. You’re not broken. You’re just human.

And if you’re ready to start letting go too, even if it’s just one box at a time, I see you.

You don’t have to do it alone.

👉 Book a free 20-min reality check-in with me if you’re ready to shift some of the weight.