I've decided it's time to do something bold. Both of my kids have moved into their own apartments, which means I've entered a new phase of life: cleaning out their rooms. Apparently empty nesting comes with a side order of organizing.
I started with my son's childhood room and quickly realized it would take more than an afternoon. Knickknacks, school papers, old projects, and my personal favorite, Lego instructions. Because clearly, he'll need those again.
I stood in the middle of the room thinking, where do I even begin? So I did what any emotionally healthy person would do. I called a friend. Guess what? She was cleaning out her closet. We laughed about how hard it is to let go. I can't remember what my husband told me this morning, but I vividly remember the paper airplane my son made when he was six. Maybe we don't hold onto things. We hold onto the stories attached to them.
Later I sat around the dining table with friends I've known for thirty years, laughing about weddings, baby namings, mitzvahs, graduations. At one point one of them asked how she looked. I understood. I do the same thing. I watch celebrities with their fabulous hair and clothes and, airbrushing aside, feel envious. I'm learning to be comfortable in my own skin, to appreciate my body rather than constantly trying to change it. But I still want to look good. I want to put on an outfit and think, okay, I look pretty good today.
I can hold both truths. I can accept myself and want to feel beautiful. I can let go of perfection without letting go of pleasure. That's what intuitive eating has taught me, too. I don't have to follow every rule I've been handed about food or my body. I can listen, get curious, and decide what feels right for me now.
What if letting go isn't about becoming less, but about carrying less? Less judgment. Less should. Less comparison. Less of the stories that no longer fit. I'm trying to pack lighter when I travel, and maybe I'm learning to pack lighter in life, too. Some things can go. Some things can stay. And some things, like those Lego instructions, may sit in a pile for another twenty years while I decide.
Maybe this is the bold thing I'm ready to do: make room. Not to start over, but to make space for who I am now and whoever I'm still becoming.
I know this isn't always easy. Sometimes we need help sorting through the piles, not just the ones in our closets but the ones in our heads and hearts. That's often the work I do with clients: slowing down, getting curious about what's no longer serving you, making room for a life that feels more like you. If you're in a season of transition, you don't have to sort through it alone.
As for me? I'm going back to my son's room. There are still Lego instructions waiting.