I come from a sentimental bunch. And by that, I mean:
I cry at commercials.
We keep Comic Con lanyards.
And yes, there’s that rock that looks like Grammy’s toe. (If you know, you know.)

Some of my family shares this trait, we attach meaning to everything. A first concert shirt. The hotel room key from a great New Year's trip. Happy anniversary notes left at our restaurant table. We’re emotionally connected to our stuff… and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

But at some point, I had to ask myself:
Where does sentimentality end and stash-happy chaos begin?

I don't want to lose the magic of keeping, but I also don't want to drown in mystery cords (So. Many. Cords.) and mismatched mementos. So I started asking a new question:
What’s the story here?

If I can tell it, I’ll keep it.
If I can't remember why it matters, maybe it doesn't anymore. 

That small shift has changed everything.
Saving something “just in case” isn’t the same as saving something with intention.

Now, when I hold onto something, I try to write down the memory, or at least just the main idea. I treat objects like little time capsules, each one helping me revisit the moments that shaped us.

It’s not perfect. I still get attached to weird stuff. (So. Many. Pens)
But instead of letting clutter pile up, I’ll let my stories take up space. It's a process, but it's coming along.

Because in the end, it’s not about how much we keep.
It’s about why we keep it.