When I set out to tackle big things, I like to dip my toe in first, check the temperature, and see if I’m really up for it. That’s why I decided not just to clean out my everyday purse—but to excavate it. Not like an archaeologist gently brushing off relics, but more like an anthropologist, trying to piece together a culture from its debris.
Because honestly, I need to clear out more than just my purse. There are at least four closets, a walk-in attic, an alarming garage, and a handful of junk drawers, all demanding attention. It’s not like this is my first downsizing rodeo. Ten years ago, we did a massive purge and swore we’d never let things pile up again. That ordeal should’ve cured my accumulation addiction—or so I thought. Then came the clearing of my parents’ house, another reminder that eventually, stuff owns the owner. “Never us,” we said. “Never again.”
And yet, here I am again, staring down a list.
This time, the scale is smaller—not a whole basement’s worth of detritus from a former, less intentional life. But still, the weight of it feels familiar. So, I started with the smallest battlefield: my purse. Or as my daughters call it, The Beast—full of little zippered mini beasts.
The summer Beast is big enough for bulky toddler snacks and newborn bottles, sturdy enough for a plane ride, and mysterious enough to possibly contain both a book of poetry and a Kindle cord. But today, as I unzip its many compartments, I’m reminded—again—of the gap between my aspirational self and my actual one.
The Beauty Beast
This little pouch should hold a curated collection of flattering lipsticks in trendy pinks and confident reds. A gold compact mirror. A tiny perfume atomizer. A crescent moon-shaped nail file and a small tissue pack for blotting makeup. If someone found this purse and peeked inside, I’d want them to picture a lovely, glowy woman.
Alas. What’s actually inside? One melted ChapStick. Three lint-covered cough drops. A dentist office toothbrush still in its plastic. And a broken-handled hairbrush tangled with hair from me, both daughters, and two grandsons.
The Financial District Beast
This is the pouch that’s supposed to save the day.
Inside: a few crumpled bills, some parking meter quarters (and coins from at least three foreign countries—you never know), expired gift cards, and a few battered checks an address from a house and state we no longer live in. There are faded receipts, business cards I don’t remember collecting, and cryptic scraps of paper with what might be Netflix recommendations or possible passwords, hard to tell.
My financial strategy, in short, is murky chaos.
The Emergency Beast
Once, my youngest daughter told someone I was good in emergencies. Out of all the compliments in the world, that one stuck. I want to be the person with Band-Aids, calm hands, and a cool, collected mind.
This pouch gives it an honest try. It holds a sleeve of Tylenol, a few loose Tums, neon dinosaur Band-Aids, a nail clipper, a tiny sewing kit, an expired AAA card, and a laminated photo of venomous snakes of South Carolina. Also, a ballpoint pen—just one. Don’t worry: if the Heimlich fails, I will not be the person jabbing a pen into anyone’s trachea. I’ll call 911. I promise.
The Writerly Beast
This is the only pouch where aspiration and reality fully align. It contains a slim notebook, two working pens, a mini sketchpad, and a Micron pen. It’s the one that always makes the transfer when I swap purses—like a small reminder that some parts of myself are still intact.
Now that I’ve excavated the Beast and exorcised a few small demons for your reading pleasure, I suppose it’s time to tackle a closet. Or at least start with the junk drawer where I have a feeling I’ll find a few dozen keys of unknown origin and hopefully a new Triple A card.
Maybe this time, instead of just clearing space, I’ll clear some expectations, too. Because in the end, decluttering isn’t just about stuff—it’s about making room for who we truly are, aspirational and otherwise.
