There are some truths that donāt arrive as lightning bolts.
They arrive in the quiet.
In the corners.
In the small, almost-invisible moments where your life catches up to your healingā¦
and suddenly something ordinary becomes a revelation.
This past week, I had one of those moments.
And it cracked something open in me.
But before I tell you about the knives ā and yes, hilariously, it is about knives ā I need to talk about something bigger.
Something messier.
Something Iāve been unpacking slowly, like the layers of a stinky onion (healing is glamorous like that).
I need to talk about clutter.
šŖØ The Clutter I Used to Think Was Just āMeā
For decades, I believed clutter was simply woven into the fabric of my identity.
I thought:
This is just how my creative brain works.
Iām a writer ā of course my house looks like a thinking tornado lives here.
Organized people are built differently; I wasnāt in that batch.
Itās fine. Itās harmless. Itās just part of who I am.
And somewhere along the line, those beliefs hardened into truth.
But hereās the actual truth ā the truth I didnāt know how to see:
