What My Smaller Closet Taught Me About Myself
What happens when your belongings no longer fit the life you're living?
My husband and I recently traded our 3,200-square-foot house in Arizona for a 1,200-square-foot condo overlooking Laguna Beach.
It sounded adventurous.
Romantic, even.
Although our children had long since left home, our lives hadn’t slowed down. We still loved traveling, working, getting together with friends, and saying yes to new adventures. But somewhere along the way, we realized we were maintaining a house that no longer matched the season of life we were in. We didn’t want less life - we simply wanted less house.
Besides, I’ve always been a little impulsive when it comes to embracing life. One of my favorite mantras is YOLO. I liked it so much I tattooed it on my hand.
So we did it.
What I didn’t realize was that moving wouldn’t just require us to pack our belongings.
It would require us to confront them.
The timing couldn’t have been more complicated. I had just closed Clothes Minded, the boutique I’d poured thirteen years of my life into. The inventory that hadn’t sold moved into our guest bedroom while I continued trying to sell the last pieces online. Then our house sold quickly, our application for a Laguna Beach condo was accepted, and suddenly our dream became very real.
We had two months to dismantle an entire life.
Every day became another round of decisions.
Facebook Marketplace.
Consignment stores.
Trips to Goodwill.
A neighborhood Facebook group where strangers happily came to take things away.
I learned something surprising.
Getting rid of possessions can become a full-time job.
Thankfully, the new owners bought most of our furniture.
But my closet….
My closet was another story.
I’ve already written about discovering nine different versions of myself hanging there. Every jacket, every pair of boots, and every dress represented a woman I’d once been.
There was the incredible piece that stopped me in my tracks on a buying trip in New York.
The blouse from that tiny London boutique I may never shop again.
The concert tee.
The leather jacket.
The beautiful shoes that reminded me of who I was when I wore them.
I purged in layers.
The obvious decisions came first.
Then the harder ones.
Then the impossible ones.
Finally, the day before the movers arrived, I gave up.
I pulled giant black bags over everything that remained and decided those decisions could move with me.
Seeing those bags lined up was sobering.
My clothes weren’t glamorous anymore.
They were just… volume.
Four oversized boxes full of shoes.
Another giant box filled with designer handbags.
For the first time, my overconsumption wasn’t hidden behind beautiful closet lighting or neatly organized shelves.
It was stacked in black bags and cardboard boxes.
It honestly made me a little sick to my stomach.
Books were easy.
Kitchen gadgets were easy.
But clothes?
Shoes?
Bags?
Those weren’t just possessions.
They were memories.
Identity.
Proof of who I’d been.
I kept wishing someone would simply tell me what to do.
I wanted to hire a professional organizer.
I wanted my husband or my son to say “Kim, you don’t need this.”
I was looking for answers anywhere I could find them.
It helped - but there’s something different about another human looking you in the eye and saying “You’re holding onto a life you’ve already lived.”
Instead, I packed it.
Moved it.
Unpacked it.
And now it’s all here again.
Surrounding me.
Waiting for me to make the same decisions I couldn’t make before.
The difference is that this little condo leaves nowhere to hide.
For the first time, I can clearly see what I own.
And maybe, for the first time, I can clearly see what owns me.
Lately, I’ve found myself scrolling through old photos. If I can find a picture of myself wearing something, somehow it feels easier to let it go. Almost as if the memory has already been safely preserved.
Maybe that’s what I’ve really been afraid of.
Not losing the clothes.
Losing the version of me they represent.
When did I become someone who held onto things so tightly?
Maybe that’s the better question.
What am I afraid I’ll lose if I let them go?