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UNPACK IT STORIES
Real stories of letting go, making space, and coming home to yourself.
Robbie’s Story
By the time she called me, the garage hadn’t been fully opened in years.
It wasn’t just cluttered. It was packed—floor to ceiling with boxes, bins, and things that had been placed there “for now” and quietly avoided.
On the surface, it looked like a space that needed organizing.
And it did.
Robbie shared how impossible it felt to get to a place where it would be possible to let go of anything.
And that made sense.
Because it wasn’t about the garage — it was about what was inside the garage… inside the boxes.
And in her avoidance, she could escape. She didn’t have to think about what it meant to keep everything, or what it might mean to even consider letting any of it go.
Boxes marked "Mom's China" filled the corner of her garage. They blocked a window that was trying to let sunlight in...with no luck.
They were carefully wrapped.
Preserved.
Untouched.
Unused.
Unused… but not unimportant.
She had made it all very important.
At one point, I asked her, gently, “If you could use this space for anything, what would that be?”
She didn’t answer right away. But the question stayed with her.
And then, almost in a whisper, she told me she had long ago imagined a small corner of the garagenear the big window with its beautiful natural light — to be a place to paint.
A small corner.
An easel.
It could be a place to paint.
As we stood there together, we began to gently unpack that desire.
Not by forcing it.
But by giving it space to come forward.
She could see it...she just couldn’t reach it.
Boxes, bins, and baskets filled the space.
When she looked at it all, it stressed her. Slowly, she began to see she was holding that stress in her body, too.This clutter wasn't just physical — it was emotional as well.
We didn’t begin by deciding or clearing — we began by pausing.
Standing there, without moving anything she allowed something quieter to come forward.
There was no rush.
No pressure to decide.
She picked up a piece of china. Then a teacup. Then a bowl.
She allowed herself space to feel what it brought up.
How she had accepted—and taken on—the role of being a parent to her parent.
The responsibility she had always felt to take care of her mother.
The belief that letting go might somehow mean letting her mother down.
All of these stories. All this time.
She was beginning to see it for herself.
And that’s when everything started to change — not in the garage — in her.
In the permission she began to give herself — permission to consider that keeping everything wasn’t the only way to honor her past.
Permission to believe that her desires mattered too.
Permission to make space—not just in the garage, but in her life.
Little by little, she cleared boxes.
She opened space.
Light came in.
And eventually, there was room for her.
Room for an easle.
For paint and brushes.
She turned the corner of her garage — just under the window where the light streams in — into her art studio.
But more than that — Robbie reclaimed a part of herself she had set aside for a long time.
Because in the end, it was never just about what was in the boxes. It was about who she had been…and who she was finally allowing herself to be.
It was about who she had been…and who she was finally allowing herself to become.
Jane’s Story
Though she had called me to assist her, Jane was still reluctant to show me her bedroom, strewn with clothes, countless decorative pillows, and rich throw blankets.
Even more reluctant to take me to the doorway of her large walk-in closet—overflowing shopping bags covered the floor.
It was challenging to walk in.
It had taken a long time for Jane to reach this point—to finally agree to downsize and move closer to her children and grandchildren.
It had been many years since her beloved husband died.
The house was empty.
An emptiness she didn’t know how to sit with.
Shopping became her way to fill it.
Blouses and pants hung with tags still attached.
Sweaters were folded on the shelves… some neatly, but many shoved in.
Drawers were so stuffed with scarves and gloves they no longer closed easily.
It was overflowing with beautiful things. Carefully chosen.
It was chaotic, elegant clutter.
The house was full. And in that fullness, she didn’t have to feel how empty it really was… quite as much.
And then, the moment came when she was ready to begin.
We found a small spot of empty floor and moved inside her closet.We stood there.Looking around in silence.
When she reached for an unopened bag, I gently asked her to pause.
Not to open anything yet.
To give herself a moment to just be and breathe.
It wasn’t easy, but she gave herself permission to be still in it all.
The physical clutter—and the clutter she was carrying in her mind.
She just stood there.
And felt it.
In that quiet, surrounded by all of the things she had brought into her life, she let herself feel her own emptiness—that all of these objects couldn’t fill.Her loss.
The emptiness she had been trying so carefully not to feel.
And from that place, something shifted.
Not all at once.
But gently.
She didn’t need to rush.
Piece by piece, she began to choose.
What still felt like her.
What no longer did.
Not because she had to.
But because she could.
Because the life she had shared with her husband was not held in what she wore.
It lived in her.
Hangers began to space out.
Drawers began to close.
Donation bags began to fill.
The closet felt different. So did she.
It was about what she had lost…about making space, and beginning to imagine what this new life might look like...what was still waiting for her.