Some say that clutter is the enemy of a peaceful mind. Others claim one person’s trash is another’s treasure. I’m not sure what to say as I sit among a curated chaos of sentimental junk and functional crap, navigating the psychological tug-of-war between nostalgia and practicality.
This isn’t hoarding — it’s an intimate relationship with my things. Each item has a story, a purpose or, at the very least, a solid alibi. Plus, I have storage bins and a label maker so suck a fart, A&E and your Emmy-winning documentary reality TV series that shall not be named!
Speaking of television that tried to critique my life choices, Marie Kondo sparked nothing but “the audacity.” Every time she said thank you to an item and let it go, I pictured my collection of mismatched souvenir shot glasses and promotional insulated coffee mugs, weeping like orphans. They spark joy, you [sweet, harmless, well-intentioned] bitch. They spark joy, even if I only just remembered I had them after opening the cabinet above the refrigerator — the one I can’t reach without a step stool.
Buried deep in my drawers are sentimental T-shirts, hiding under other T-shirts. There are shirts from concerts I barely remember attending, late-night online purchases inspired by Instagram ads that read my half-drunk mind like a book and the seasonal gifts my mother gives every Christmas. They’re always themed — The Grinch, Buddy the Elf — and bought in bulk so the whole family can match (because isn’t that the true reason for the season?).
Some shirts are too small, some have holes and a faint scent of mothballs, and some remain unworn, perfectly folded as they were years ago. Yet, every time I consider tossing one, a montage of memories plays in my mind — the music, the laughter, the late-night Instagram scrolls as I ladyspread on my couch, the first and last time I crowd-surfed (earning the traditional over-the-pants snatch-scoop). Throwing these away feels like discarding chapters of my life story, a story that deserves a happy ending. Or, at the very least, these shirts deserve to be sewn into a quilt that I would dutifully fold and bury deep in a drawer.
Another collection that reliably churns out sparks of joy is my pens. The ones that always write and never do me wrong (see what I did there). In a world where pens mysteriously vanish or fail at critical moments, these are miracles of consistency. Their ink flows smoothly and each satisfying click of their mechanism is practically accompanied by an angelic choir. These pens have been my companions through grocery lists, half-finished journal entries, stand-up bits and the occasional passive-aggressive note I’d never actually leave but felt fucking amazing to write. They aren’t just pens; they are symbols of reliability in a world that often feels anything but.
My storage closet is a time capsule of forgotten ambitions and questionable financial decisions. The 4-pack of 18×24 blank canvases, purchased alongside charcoal and acrylic paints, still awaits the happy little trees or angst-riddled abstract artistry I’ll eventually get around to. The dumbbells, ankle weights and ab roller stand as remnants of an optimistic health kick I’m reminded of monthly when my Peloton subscription auto-renews. The alto saxophone mocks me with its brass smugness. Each item represents a version of me that once believed I’d become the type of person with an intellectual, worldly hobby. Who’s to say I won’t revive those passion projects? The closet and its contents stay, a testament to what could be if I just try to remember what’s in there.
To an outsider, my collection of sentimental objects and everyday essentials might seem like a mess. To me, it’s a carefully curated gallery of memories, practicality and whimsy. These items aren’t just things, they’re characters in the ongoing story of this little shitshow called life. Each one holds a piece of who I am, who I’ve been and sometimes who I’d like to be. Minimalism may be trendy and Marie Kondo may be a kindhearted cutie but I’ll take my joyful clutter any day. After all, life isn’t about having fewer things, it’s about holding onto the ones that make you laugh, cry or remember why you fell in love with this complex, wonderful existence in the first place.
So, here I am, surrounded by a delightful chaos that reminds me to embrace the messiness of life itself. Each object — from a forgotten T-shirt to an overly ambitious art supply — tells me it’s okay to be a work in progress. I don’t need perfection; I need connection to my memories, my quirks and the people who gave these items meaning. In a world that often demands we strip things down to their bare essentials; I choose to celebrate the beautifully cluttered mosaic of who I am. And maybe, just maybe, one day that saxophone will sing again.
Sabrina Ambra is a co-host of Real Radio 104.1’s “News Junkie” program and stand-up comedian.
