Clearing Space for a New Chapter

Who Knew Retirement Came with So Many Trash Bags?

Several years ago, I strategically planned my retirement date.

I knew the first few months would be spent traveling in Australia and visiting friends. Once I returned, I imagined my retirement being long morning walks, coffee, reading and/or writing articles or books, spontaneous afternoon naps, and perhaps picking up a new hobby—painting, golfing, maybe even archery.

What I didn't imagine? Trash bags. So many trash bags.

It started innocently enough: I opened the closet under the stairs to look for luggage for my retirement trip. There, I realized how much stuff I had accumulated over the years. And that's when it hit me:

Do I really need all this stuff?

The luggage closet under the stairs is usually filled with boxes of junk

Excess luggage aside, I knew that my house was filled with clothing that didn't fit, items I no longer use, and don't get me started on the still unopened boxes from the last move (9 years ago). I knew I couldn't solve the issue before my trip, so I vowed that when I returned, I would tame the beast.

Now back from ten weeks in Australia, I placed my newly acquired clothing into my closet and remembered it was time to attempt this decluttering task. During my time away, I reflected on my life and realized that I can actually function with much less stuff. It's amazing what a long-term vacation can do for the mind and soul.

I started with the dresser.

Like most people, the top drawer contains socks, underwear, and "upper undergarments," as a friend calls them.

I started with the socks—so many socks—tall socks, short socks, white, black. Some had no partners, and others had their elastic stretched beyond salvation. I found a pair of toe socks I must've bought during some weird phase. Out they went. I gave myself permission to keep my favorite hiking and skiing socks—even if I haven't hiked for a while or skied in over ten years. Perhaps in my retirement, I will have more time.

The undergarments. I won't go into detail, but let's say there were items in there that belonged to a different decade and perhaps a different version of me. I kept the comfortable ones (you know, the ones) and said goodbye to anything that gave me a wedgy.

The second drawer of T-shirts was a full-blown time capsule. It contained concert merchandise, souvenir tees from trips where I felt obligated to bring something home, and a kaleidoscope of random colors that all made sense once, if only briefly. I sorted them based on memories and how they fit; if they didn't spark joy or fall loosely over my belly, they went straight into the donation pile.

By the third and fourth drawers, I was getting into a rhythm. I adopted a simple rule: if I haven't worn it in two years, I probably won't wear it again. Exceptions were made for the hand-knit mohair sweater from Brugges, the very expensive Norwegian wool cardigan, the specialty clothing such as cycling jerseys and shorts, and a full-body stinger suit.

As I folded what remained and placed it back in the dresser, the drawers slid shut without resistance. No more clothes trying to escape every time I opened them—just space and a quiet sense of relief.

After the dresser, I knew I needed to keep going.

Closets are the second place that accumulates quickly.

The closet was next, followed by the basement.

In the closet, I found a New Year's Eve dress from 2000, when everyone thought the world was going to end. In the basement, I found VHS tapes for a VCR I no longer own, two blenders, and enough Tupperware containers to open a restaurant. Some items made me laugh, others made me nostalgic, and many made me wonder if I'd been secretly preparing for a second house.

I haven't finished decluttering yet, but I have a process.

Letting go of things isn't always easy. Every item comes with a story. The clothing I bought for my trip to Egypt is too snug now, but it is tied to memories of temples and pyramids. The stack of goodbye cards from past coworkers I barely remember but whose words felt meaningful at the time. The books I swore I'd read when I had more time, but now they no longer interest me.

But here's the beautiful thing I've discovered: clearing space physically has helped me clear space mentally. With each bag of donations, recycling, or plain old trash, I've felt lighter—not just in my home but in my spirit. It's as if I'm making room for the next version of me—the one who isn't defined by job titles or packed calendars but by curiosity, rest, and maybe a little reinvention.

Now, don't get me wrong—I'm not becoming a minimalist overnight. I still have a large collection of "business casual" clothing, a mug collection that borders on excessive, and a husband who collects, well, just about everything. But I'm learning to hold things (and memories) more lightly. I'm learning that freedom in retirement isn't just about time—it's about space.

So yes, I'm retired. And yes, I've spent more time at donation centers than I have at happy hours. But I don't mind. Because clearing out the clutter isn't just about what I'm losing—it's about what I'm making room for.

A new chapter is unfolding. And who knew it would start with a trash bag?