Spring Cleaning the Soul, Part One:

Why Clutter Becomes Unbearable

This is Part One of a four-part series on decluttering the soul and making room for what wants to come next.

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There comes a moment when clutter stops being neutral.

It does not just sit there anymore.
It presses.
It intrudes.
It starts asking something of you.

For me, that moment came on a Sunday afternoon.

I had just visited a friend’s apartment in my building. I sat in his big red leather easy chair, looked around his space, and felt something I had not felt in my own home in months.

Warmth.
Comfort.
Ease.

It was not about the furniture. It was about the quiet. The understated sophistication of a space that held only what belonged there. Nothing extra. Nothing borrowed from an earlier life. Just presence.

I came home carrying that feeling. Turning it over in my body.

And then I bolted into action.

I was going to declutter my living space. Create that same warmth. That same ease.

But when I turned toward my studio, I froze

.

A painting had just sold. A large one. Which meant I needed to ship it. Cut down a box to size. Wrap it in bubble wrap. Secure it properly.

Simple enough.

Except my work table, the sacred space where I am meant to create, was buried.

Packing materials I had been saving just in case.
Boxes I might need for future shipments.
Old bills that had been paid years ago.
Worn out brushes collecting in a bucket, probably a hundred of them, that I had not touched in over a year but felt too guilty to throw away.

None of it was trash.
All of it was reasonable.

And yet I could not move.

My eyes traveled from the work table to the storage shelves across from it. Same story. Supplies I never use stacked on every surface

.

Then I looked at the floor beneath the table.

Shoved into the corner was my mother’s bench. Fifty years old. I do not want it. I do not use it. But I keep it because throwing it away feels wrong. Because guilt told me to.

How strange that a piece of furniture can hold that kind of power.

Here is what clutter feels like in my body.

Like a bad hamburger. Cold. Dry. Limp. Lifeless.

My whole body froze. Not just my shoulders or my hands. All of me.

I stood there stunned at how easily a space meant for creation had become a holding pen for everything else.

And the worst part was not the mess. It was the time. The amount of time it would take to clear it all out. Time away from what I actually love. Painting. Writing. Creating.

My eyes scanned the room again. The only place that felt clear was my desk. The computer. The printer. The files. A small island of refuge inside the chaos.

Everywhere else felt like static. Visual noise. Energy I could not access because it was tangled up in things I did not even want.

For a long time, I lived surrounded by things that once made sense.

Art supplies for techniques I no longer practice.
Nine pairs of scissors in various shapes and sizes from a time when I made ornaments and crafts. Art books stacked on the top shelf that I have never opened, gifts from family members who were trying to honor my love for art without knowing I have never been interested in reading about it.

I keep them anyway. So I do not offend anyone. Even though no one ever sees the inside of my studio.

Small paintings from the beginning of my art career sit in a blue plastic bin. I organized them two years ago. I have not looked at them since. Letting them go still feels sacrilegious, so they remain.

This is the part we do not talk about enough.

Clutter often belongs to earlier versions of ourselves.

Versions who needed more options.
More protection.
More proof.

Versions who were still searching. Still trying on identities. Still keeping backups for a life that had not clarified yet.

When clarity arrives, excess starts to feel invasive.

You do not suddenly want less because you have become disciplined.
You want less because you are done.

Done holding potential that no longer applies.
Done negotiating with objects that whisper maybe someday.
one living inside visual and energetic static.

This is not minimalism as a lifestyle choice.

This is discernment as a biological response.

If this series is speaking to you, it may be because you are ready for more than inspiration.

I invite you to become an annual paid subscriber and make a quiet, intentional commitment to your own expansion.

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This is not about fixing yourself.
It’s about clearing interference.
Making room.
And living from clarity instead of habit.

If you feel that nudge, trust it.

Join us, and let this be the season you stop postponing what wants to expand in you.

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