I used to think grief and clutter were two separate problems. One lived in my chest. The other lived in my garage.

It took me a long time to see they were the same problem, wearing two different coats.

Neither One Moves in a Straight Line

Nobody tells you this about grief: you don't move through it and come out the other side, done. You circle back. A song comes on, or you find a grocery list in your mother's handwriting, and you're right back at day one, just for a minute.

Clutter works the same way. You clear a shelf, feel lighter, and three weeks later there's a new pile in the exact same spot. Not because you failed. Because that's what unfinished things do. They come back around until you're ready to actually look at them.

I used to think the coming-back-around meant I was doing it wrong. Now I think it just means I'm still in it. Both of those things can be true for a long time.

Both Get Set Aside "For Now"

"For now" is the most honest lie I've ever told myself.

I said it about a box of my father's tools I didn't need and couldn't use. "For now" feels responsible. Like you're being careful instead of avoidant. But for now has a way of becoming five years, or forever, without you ever deciding it would.

Clutter piles up in "for now." So does unprocessed grief. Both of them are just postponed decisions, waiting in a box you haven't opened.

Both Are Heavier Than They Look From Outside

Someone walking into my house after my parents died would have seen boxes. Ordinary boxes, stacked in a garage. They wouldn't have felt what I felt looking at them, which was something closer to standing under a weight I couldn't name.

That's the part almost nobody understands unless they've carried it themselves. From the outside, it's stuff. From the inside, every box is a decision you're not ready to make, sitting on top of a loss you're not done feeling. People offer to help you sort. They rarely understand why you can't just start.

Neither One Responds Well to a Deadline

I wanted to be done. With the grief, with the garage, with all of it. I gave myself timelines I never met, and then felt like I'd failed on top of everything else I was already carrying.

What actually worked was smaller and slower than I wanted it to be. One drawer. One memory, sat with instead of rushed past. Grief and clutter both move at their own pace, and that pace is almost never the one you had in mind when you started.

If You're Standing in the Middle of Both Right Now

You're not behind. You're not doing this wrong. If the piles keep coming back, or the grief keeps circling around when you thought you were past it, that's not failure. That's just what unfinished things do, on their way to actually being finished.

Go slow. Let it take longer than feels reasonable. It's allowed to.

I'd Like to Hear From You

Have you noticed this too, the way grief and clutter seem to tangle together? What's still sitting in a box, waiting for you to be ready?

Send me an email at [email protected]. I read every message myself.

You're not doing this wrong. You're doing something hard, and you're doing it while grieving. That's enough. 💛