Facing the challenge of separating myself from my material things
One of the big hurdles I’ve had to overcome as I prepare to leave Denver is coming to terms with having to detach myself from my physical possessions. I like my apartment. I love having my own space and sitting on my comfortable couch surrounded by books I’ve read, art I’ve picked out, and reminders from different times in my life. It is cozy.
In addition to the sheer comfort of it all, I’ve come to realize (partially on my own, partially fleshed out in therapy) that for me, a lot of this stuff means status. Status as a grown up. Status as a successful human. I have things. I am here.
This realization came to me as I started mentally cataloging all my belongings. I can’t hold on to a lot because it doesn’t make sense to pay for storage, and it would also cost money to move things to my mom’s garage in Connecticut. I figured that all of my things need to fit into three categories: Keep, Sell, and Donate. I noticed myself getting stuck on certain items. You’d think those would be the sentimental things. But they weren’t.
The couch in question. The apartment has recently been staged by my wonderful realtors.
A little backstory: I have this couch. This big, beautiful, wonderful couch. It was handed down to me over a decade ago by my uncle who is no longer with us. But that couch was important to me even while my uncle was still alive. It is a Pottery Barn couch. Eight feet of cushy, pillowy, wonder. A couch that on no planet would I ever be able to afford to buy new. Honestly, that couch was the only reason I brought any of my furniture to Denver from the East Coast. I refused to relinquish it, and I figured if I was paying to move the couch, I might as well move the other stuff too. Truth be told, the cost of the cross-country movers was less than the original sticker price of the couch.
The point is, I love that couch A LOT. But, I have made my peace with losing the couch. I am ready. It’s fine. Despite this grand victory, I still found myself hesitating when I came across certain items. My food processor. My complete pots and pans set. My wine glasses.
These are all things that can be easily replaced. For the most part (besides a few certain mugs and glasses that I will tuck away), these things are not tied to anything sentimental. Why the struggle?
Status. For some reason, having a fully outfitted kitchen means something to me. It means that I am an adult. It doesn’t matter that I pretty much only ever make the simplest of meals using one pan and one pot. I can make a damn pesto IF I WANT TO. Oh, you’ve come over and you want some wine? Sip it from my beautiful stemless glassware! Aren’t I the growndest?
Some kitchen wares. Before staging, I had a lot more STUFF.
This is rooted pretty deep. I’m sure most of us experience a degree of this, but I think it may be a little stronger within me.
Growing up as the child of a single, working-class parent in a very wealthy town, it was easy to draw comparisons between my life and the lives of my friends. Growing up, we were the people that didn’t have STUFF (at least not in the way that friends did). Stuff meant success. Stuff meant not white trash. Stuff meant security.
Those comparisons aren’t much different now when I look at the lives of those same friends. So, I cling to my food processor, I cling to my pots and pans, I cling to my wine glasses. I think about the future. If my endeavors don’t go the way I want them to… or even if they do, but I still have to find a place to settle, there will be a time when I get my new place and I won’t have the stuff. I’ll be back to square one. Dorm-style living. Childish living. To a degree, I am anticipating the judgments of others. It’s enough to make me shudder.
The beauty of realizing this, however, is now I can move past it. I can rationalize my way out of it. Stuff doesn’t really add anything. Stuff won’t make me happy. Stuff is not engaging my life on a daily basis. In fact, to a degree, stuff is holding me down. With every piece I purge, either by selling or donating, I feel a little lighter. Even my beloved couch, which cradles me and gives me support regularly, is holding me down. In order to get anything done, I need to move away from the couch. It is a place of comfort, but not a place of forward momentum. So, I say goodbye to the couch. I say goodbye to the fully equipped kitchen.
I say hello to putting the idea of comfort behind me, in the hopes that being on high alert in new, strange places will ignite something that has long been lying dormant.
Find me