By wes

Every few months, like clockwork, I get overwhelmed by my stuff.

In the immortal words of Edina Monsoon: “Surfaces, darling, surfaces! I don’t want things in places.”

And honestly, same.

A minimal, uncluttered home looks like absolute peace. Calm. Serenity. Something that would soothe my ADHD brain and maybe make me a better person. Or at least a less shouty one.

So I attack the process with great enthusiasm. Cupboards flung open. Drawers judged harshly. Bags filled with ruthless intent.

And then I hit the wall.

The pottery pot from Morocco.

The bronze bust from Bali.

The tulip pot from Amsterdam.

Suddenly I’m not decluttering. I’m time travelling.

I like these things. I chose these things. They come with memories, jet lag, bad decisions, good dinners and better stories. They are not clutter. They are receipts from a life well lived.

So I pivot. As one does.

I attack my wardrobe instead, convinced this will be easier. I can easily halve it, I tell myself. Brutal efficiency. No mercy.

Twenty minutes later I’m holding a floral shirt two sizes too small, whispering, “But what if I’m skinny again and need a floral shirt?”

Back it goes.

Listen, I am not anti-decluttering. Rubbish must go. Stuff I don’t use must go. Random nicknacks with no meaning can absolutely get in the bin. But my collected things? My art gathered over 30-odd years of buying, travelling, living? That stays.

Minimalism, I’ve realised, is aspirational. Like yoga at sunrise or drinking enough water. I admire it deeply. From a distance.

So I’ve made peace with my reality.

Minimalism is for hotels and other people’s homes.

My house will be edited, not erased.

Twice a year I’ll purge the nonsense. I’ll streamline where I can. I’ll aim for calm without pretending I’m someone who doesn’t love a meaningful object on a surface.

Because a life with memories needs somewhere to put them.