My 5-year-old little fingers gently rubbed against the light purple shell of a toy egg, the friction slowly thinning its exterior. I cracked open my first obsession: Hatchimals. Inside was a small, colorful, plastic figurine with wide doll shaped eyes and a shimmery body. As a 5-year-old, I would carefully place the opened eggs on a shelf and admire them. As time passed, I collected a whole shelf’s worth of these toys that I deeply cherished.
A new craze sparked my interest only a year later: Calico Critters. Similar to the Hatchimals, the little dolls started to fill my shelves one by one. My room was met by the Calico Critter collections of panda, bunny and cat families. Although there was almost no more space for my new toys, I refused to take the Hatchimals off my shelf. Even though I had moved on from the Hatchimals, I couldn’t bear the thought of abandoning them. The thought of throwing away my once-beloved possessions brought a sense of emptiness. Attempting to shield myself from that feeling, I refused to let go of anything I had collected.
Over time, my collections grew, and the hoarding started to affect my life. Yet, I still found a sense of safety in holding onto things of the past. I saved the stationery I got from gifts until my entire desk was filled with beautiful pens, I laid dozens of stuffed animals on my bed until there was almost no room to sleep, and I kept toys from my toddler years on my shelves regardless of how crowded they became. I had calligraphy pens in every possible color which I adored, except I never even learned how to use them. I refused to move anything from the safety of its years-old resting place and rejected the idea of throwing something out. My room’s capacity could no longer take it: decade-old figurines constantly toppled off my shelves, stickers bent as containers were over stuffed, and necklaces tangled together into super knots.
A couple of days ago, I took a bold step and I reached for one of my most prized possessions. I opened a perfect array of sticky notes that I had treasured for nearly eight years, and not a single one had been touched. I deemed my humanities reading important enough to use one, so I gently peeled one off one of the sage green sticky notes and stuck it into my book. But when I pushed the adhesive side down, it rolled back off the page. I had been so reluctant to use them, hoping to preserve them forever, but instead, having saved them for so long, waiting for the perfect moment, I lost my chance to enjoy them.
I looked over at the many shelves that lined my walls, each one piled with treasures I had collected since childhood. Each item seemed to hold some sort of indescribable significance, and each piece was marked with a feeling of attachment. I brought myself to start cleaning out my dusty shelf. I found items I hadn’t thought of in years. The old piles took up so much space that the new objects hadn’t had the opportunity to be displayed. The new pens I collected were still in boxes on my floor as there was no space in my desk for them. I realized my stubbornness in savoring everything had limited my appreciation of the present.
I applied this new realization when this year’s Mock Trial season came around and I felt empty without the graduated seniors. I spent the first couple meetings reminiscing with the other returning members about all the memories we had shared as a team. Almost a month into the season, I hadn’t talked to a single new member; thinking so much about the alumni restricted me from getting to know the new team. Similar to the heap of things I had collected, I hadn’t given myself any space to truly enjoy whatever was happening in the moment. With this new understanding, I’ve made an effort to bond with my new teammates and create more unforgettable memories.
When I cleared out my entire room recently, a strange and unexpected sensation swept through me: I found myself with an unfamiliar sense of space instead of the emptiness I had anticipated. Letting go of all my things did not mean I no longer cared for them, but rather created more room for what was to come. I stopped collecting just to have things, and I started collecting to continue experiencing.
My new view has allowed me to start living day by day. I’ve learned to focus on creating new memories with the people around me instead of clinging to the past ones. Instead of reminiscing about the people who were once in my life, I now try directing my attention to the friends I can make right now. I no longer judge myself for past actions, but strive to find ways I can improve in the present. I’ve learned to enjoy every moment of my life, without worrying about tomorrow or yesterday, but only today.
