My Life Changed, My Stuff Didn't

My Life Changed. My Stuff Didn't.

I do this every year.

September turns up, Sydney remembers it owns sunshine, and something in me goes: right, time to clean, declutter and get my life together.

I don't know what it is about spring. One decent sunny morning and I'll look at a completely innocent cupboard like it's personally wronged me.

This year I may have taken it slightly further than usual. 😂

It started with clothes.

I had a lot of clothes.

Had. Past tense. Twenty-ish dresses now sitting in a "sell" pile, plus enough bags for the Salvos to open their own pop-up shop.

Then it was books. Cupboards. Drawers. Shoes. All the stuff that quietly multiplies when you've lived in one house long enough to shove something away and think I'll sort that later.

Turns out later was September 2026.

And then — because apparently I hadn't caused enough chaos — we swapped two entire rooms around.

There was a genuinely sensible reason for that part. Mum and Dad come over from New Zealand to stay, and the guest room wasn't really working. So: office becomes guest room, guest room becomes office, update and move the bed, sort through the wardrobes, stored clothing, and four bookcases full of books.

JUST a simple swap – I thought.

Yeah – not so much!

Somewhere around the fourth pile of things I'd genuinely forgotten I owned, I had a realisation that stopped me mid-sort:

My life has changed enormously in the last few years. My stuff hadn't.

COVID changed things — I don't work the way I used to, don't need the wardrobe I once needed for an office I don't go to anymore.

Then I became a Nanna. Which changed absolutely everything, in the best way, and nobody warns you how much.

And menopause turned up and changed my body. Again. As though puberty and two pregnancies hadn't already had their turn. 😂

That last one was written all over the wardrobe. Dresses I'd genuinely loved, that fit a different-shaped Wendy. Some still technically fit. I'd put one on and think: nah. Not because the dress was wrong. Not because I was wrong. We just didn't work together anymore.

Then there was the other category — clothes I'd kept because they were expensive, or beautiful, or I'd worn them somewhere memorable, or I might conceivably need them again if exactly the right weather, occasion and planetary alignment occurred.

Very useful. Very sensible. 😂

And I thought: why am I giving my current life storage space for lives I don't live anymore?

That's what actually changed the whole exercise for me. I wasn't decluttering. I was looking at the archived remains of several different Wendys, all still paying rent in my own wardrobe.

Which isn't sad, by the way. Those were good years. Some of them were spectacular. Some were a bit of a disaster, as previously established. But they happened, and I don't need to keep a dress to keep the memory.

Then — plot twist — I found things I'd been "saving." You know the ones. Too good for every day.

Which is a strange thing to do, when you actually look at it. How good does a Tuesday have to get before I'm allowed to use my own things? Do I need a formal invitation? A minor royal in attendance?

I've done this with perfume. Candles. Good stationery. Dresses, so many dresses!

Meanwhile the good thing just sits there, ageing, waiting for a special occasion that never checks its calendar.

Well. I'm 59. I'd rather not leave behind a pristine box of something fabulous for someone to find one day and go, "oh, Wendy must've been saving this."

So: use it. Wear the shoes. Feel divine in your favourite dress.  Burn the candle. Write in the beautiful notebook.

Wednesday might not look like a special occasion. But it's still one of mine. Starting to think that's reason enough.

Funny thing is, this whole exercise began because I wanted my parents to have a nicer room. What I've actually ended up with is a house that fits the life I'm living now — a proper room for Mum and Dad, a much better office, a wardrobe I actually wear, shelves that can breathe, and considerably fewer layers of old Wendy lying around the place.

Last week I wrote about the friends who remind us who we used to be, and how some of her is worth bringing forward. This week feels like the other half of that: keep the bits of the old you that still light you up. You don't have to keep all her stuff to do it.

So here's your one for this week. Open a drawer. A cupboard. If you're feeling brave, the wardrobe. Pick something up you've had for years and ask — not could I possibly use this again (we're all very talented at inventing scenarios) — but does this belong in the life I'm actually living now?

And if you find something gorgeous you've been saving for a special occasion while you're in there — use it.

Because I've finally worked out when the special occasion is.

It's now. 💕