Month 1: Ruthlessly Eliminate Clutter

There are three kinds of clutter which are perpetually poised to drain the life from my veins: physical clutter, scheduling clutter, and mental clutter.

To add good habits to my life, I first need to make space for them – as in, the probability that adding scrapbooking to my already busy schedule will improve my mood is vanishingly small.

 

The Physical Clutter Game Plan

I decided to start with physical clutter. When I mentioned my decluttering mission to friends, they looked at me as if I had announced plans to dehydrate water: "You really don't have that much left to get rid of." Fair point. My house isn't exactly featured on "Hoarders". I’ve long loved minimalism, and my entire wardrobe couldn’t take up more than twenty hangers.

But even if I don't unearth a single mismatched sock or mysterious kitchen gadget, revisiting my belongings serves two alternative purposes:

1. It brings forgotten treasures back into rotation

2. It reminds me what I actually have for when I need that specific screwdriver or a friend needs something I can provide (yes, I have five USB-C cables, can I offer you one?)

I expect to do a lot of replacing. Years of living on student fellowships and quirky-but-poorly-paid jobs have turned me into a financial contortionist. I've never shopped with reckless abandon - in fact, I find it more fun and satisfying to see something desirable and then decide not to buy it.

This means that I use items until they're practically fossils. When something finally retires, I'll go months - sometimes years - before admitting I need a replacement. Then it's another geological era before I actually make the purchase. My shopping mantra is less "Treat Yourself" and more "Would Gandhi purchase this?"

It's a fun game, seeing how little I can spend while maintaining a (questionably) reasonable lifestyle, but there's a plot twist. While I do have some high-quality, luxurious items, much of what surrounds me is so used and tattered that it's crossed the line from "thrifty" to "depressing clutter."

My black Patagonia sweatpants are the embodiment of this. Over several years, I've loved them into a drawstring-less existence where holes in the elastic bottoms have evolved into unintentional foot stirrups. They're comfortable enough, and they cover what they must to keep me out of jail for indecent exposure, but "not getting arrested" is a pretty low bar for clothing. I don’t feel good wearing them anymore – they make me feel like I’m giving up on life (albeit in a comfortable way).

If something has survived nuclear-level washing and still looks like it was salvaged from a dumpster fire, then it’s probably time for replacement. Some things I've kept purely because they were free - useful, yes, but with the aesthetic appeal of a gas station bathroom.

The good news? I now have a job that pays enough to justify purchasing a new shirt without requiring financial therapy afterward. Perhaps it's time to embrace the joy of loving nice, functioning items rather than clinging to the hollow victory of resisting "purchase desire" like it's my personal Olympic sport.

When I throw something away, I experience a rush of euphoria: "I'll never have to wash/pick up/fix that thing again!" Similarly, when I finally cave and buy a quality replacement, I think, "It'll be years before this disintegrates into dust!" Both thoughts bring me disproportionate joy, which is why I'm starting with physical clutter—even though my possession count is already smaller than my first paycheck as a teenager.