Getting rid of baking supplies: A metaphor

When "I can make this work" becomes a way of life.

I’m writing to you from the middle of purging old belongings as I move to a smaller apartment. Even before this, I’ve had the sense of having too much... stuff. Cabinets full of baking supplies I last used maybe 18 months ago. A closet full of old cords, clothes that no longer fit, and odds and ends that I never really decided to keep. And through it all, I have a sense of being weighed down by everything that isn’t aligned with how I live today. With a new season of my life approaching, some reckoning is happening over here.

Being a Marie Kondo disciple taught me, perhaps ironically, that I am no minimalist. In fact, I love being surrounded by the things that light me up: my knitting and sewing supplies, books that have shaped me, art and tchotchkes that feel like bits of my soul on a shelf.

And then add on ADHD — or being a creative, or hell, just growing and evolving — and I have a graveyard of supplies for hobbies that I’ve drifted from. Photography equipment, cookie decorating tips, paper craft supplies for scrapbooking and card making. Experience tells me that I won’t return to all of these, but I will come back to some and will be grateful that the supplies are ready.

Right there is the tension so many of us live in: how do you have a home that feels manageable and prepared and enough (whatever that means), while not drowning in objects that you “might need” “just in case” or could “work with.”

Because when I dig out the old supplies or the orphan cords or the jeans that would make a cute skirt, I think “I can do something with this.”

“I can make this work.”

Whew. A sentence that stops me cold. Because I don’t just try to make my belongings fit in my house. “I can make this work” could be on my tombstone. I can make just about anything work and if I’m sacrificing my peace of mind, my nervous system, my own health? Well, that’s the price of admission baby!

Oof.

Maybe for you it looks like making a city or neighborhood work that doesn’t actually align with your values, that feels a bit off, a bit lonely. Or maybe it’s the relationship that is comfortable or loving without actually meeting your needs. Perhaps you’re making work the job that pays the bills and provides health insurance, but slowly erodes your sense of self.

I see these choices every day, in myself, in my community, in my clients. The decisions that aren’t necessarily wrong, just harder than they could be. And I see the ways we think we can make something work for us if we just try hard enough.

As if a square peg and a round hole just needed more discipline and patience to fit.

And all the while making it work is costing you something. All of us have a limit to how much hard we can metabolize. Living on this rock is hard enough. We will lose the people we love, suddenly and slowly. We will lose our own bodies’ capabilities. We’re taught that doing hard things and discipline is good, godly even, but there’s enough hardship in just being a person.

There’s no getting out of this alive.

So here’s what I’m learning: that my life is not an endurance test. That this wonderful, devastating life is more like a sunset to be taken in while I can, knowing it’s fleeting and finding it even more beautiful for it.

It means asking myself when I’m sorting through cabinets of old things: “Is this aligned with how I actually live?” instead of “can I make this work?” And the stuff that isn’t aligned anymore gets lovingly released to someone for whom it will be aligned (Marie Kondo would be so proud).

So goodbye to the Milton tips and food dye because this Rachel doesn’t actually have the patience to decorate cookies that I’ll eat in ten minutes. Goodbye to the funky scissors and decorative paper and stamp pads because I have literally never scrapbooked a day in my life despite moving scrapbooking supplies across two states and five apartments. But I’ll lovingly keep my Canon DSLR because I know there’s a future Rachel who will pick it up and take photos around Lake Merritt with gratitude.

Because this was never really about having less. It certainly is not about deprivation — I will remain surrounded by my plants and books and yarn and records and — but instead about knowing yourself well enough to discern when you’re stewarding something for the future versus holding onto something out of fear and obligation and misplaced loyalty.

And let’s be realistic: some things can’t be released without devastating consequences. Rage quitting without resources to sustain yourself is risky. And we can repair some relationships and objects with a bit of elbow grease. Refurbishing something to fit your needs is more gratifying than buying fresh. So this isn’t a call to burn your life down. It’s an invitation to check in with yourself: what kind of hard am I choosing?

So much of this process requires faith in a future version of ourselves to figure shit out. If Future Rachel one day wants to decorate cookies, I trust that she will ask a friend to borrow piping tips. She’s so okay. Future You has got this too.

When I set up my donation box today, I realized that I don’t need to protect Future Me by holding on to every object, project, or relationship that might one day come to fruition. I only need to set up my life sustainably so Future Me doesn’t inherit a mess. The stuff that aligns with my values, that works for me in the here and now, gets precious real estate. I’m letting go of what might work, one day.

Because no matter how big your space is, there isn’t enough room for “I can make this work” or “what if I need this later” in your closet, babe.