I am not a minimalist. I am not going to tell you to put all your belongings in a pile on the floor and discard anything that "does not spark joy."
My parents grew up as children in post-war Germany — a place and time where people did not have much, and desperately hung on to the things they did have. I grew up in a household where a coffee can was not trash — it was a future container for nails. A worn-out towel was not garbage — it was a shop rag. That fancy wrapping paper a relative used for your birthday gift? You carefully removed the clear tape and folded the paper to use it in the future.
I still think that way... well, to some degree. With my small house, seems there is constantly the struggle between "keeping my space clear and livable" and "keeping things that could be handy in future projects."
I've learned the hard way, over time, that there is a fine line between "hoarding semi-useless stuff" and "being prepared."
The Problem with "Sparks Joy"
Marie Kondo's famous rule — keep only what sparks joy — is a useful starting point for most people. For clothes, books, kitchen gadgets, and decorative items, it works well: hold the thing, ask yourself if it makes you happy, and if the answer is no, let it go.
But the rule falls apart the moment you open a toolbox or a project supply bin. A half-used roll of plumber's tape doesn't bring me delight, but I'd be annoyed if I needed to seal a fitting and didn't have any. An old pair of scissors isn't joyful, but it's exactly what I want to keep around for cutting things covered in sticky glue, so I don't ruin the good pair.
If you do any amount of home repair or general fix-it work, you're going to own things that don't spark joy but are genuinely useful. The trick is distinguishing between "I will realistically use this within the next year" and "I'm keeping this because throwing it away feels wasteful." The second one is the trap.
The Math That Changed My Thinking
Here's an exercise that shifted my perspective more than any organizational philosophy ever did: calculating what it actually costs to store things.
The average cost of housing in the Richmond metro area — whether you're renting or paying a mortgage — works out to a certain amount per square foot per month. The exact number depends on your neighborhood, but as a rough guide, you're paying somewhere around $1.00–$1.50 per square foot per month for your living space.
Now look at that hall closet. It's maybe 8 square feet of floor space. If it's packed floor to ceiling with things you haven't touched in two years, you're paying roughly $100–$150 a year to store them. Is the stuff in there worth $150? Would it cost you $150 to replace the things you'd actually need again? For many closets, the honest answer is no.
Scale that up across a house and it gets real. Three winter jackets, four pairs of boots, assorted hats and scarves — that collection takes up a square foot or two on its own. Multiply that by a hundred similar little collections of infrequently-used items scattered around the house, and you're easily dedicating an entire room's worth of space — space you're paying for — to things you rarely touch.
And if you're paying for an off-site storage unit? Run that calculation. A typical 5x10 storage unit in the Richmond area costs $75–$120 a month. After three years, you've spent $2,700–$4,300. Is the stuff inside worth that?
The Replacement Test
Here's the question I ask myself before keeping something I'm on the fence about:
If I got rid of this and needed it again in two years, what would it cost me to replace?
If the answer is "five dollars and a trip to Lowe's" — for most people, it's probably best to toss it. You are paying more in storage space and mental clutter than the thing is worth.
Of course, that greatly depends on the size of the item. A big piece of foam takes up more space than an old metal hinge.
That said, the calculation has gotten more complicated recently, due to inflation and getting rid of my car. A quick trip to Lowe's used to be not a big deal; now with my bike, it is more time-consuming.
Plus, things are rapidly getting more expensive, so those old pieces of plumbing PVC pipe that used to be a clear "toss" might now cost $25 to replace.
Regardless, it's always good to clearly think about storage cost... in monetary terms and in "livability terms".
When I catch myself admiring some living space or AirBnB on YouTube because it's so clean and cozy, I look around my own place and start picking up things and tossing them.
The Amazon Paradox
Here's a sign that you've crossed the line from resourceful to overloaded: you buy something on Amazon because you can't find the one you already own.
I've done this. Like, buying a new set of shelf brackets, even though I knew (and could see in my Amazon purchase history) that I had bought several sets in the past when they were on sale. But where could they be? Attic, shed, bottom of the closet, stashed behind the washing machine?
At that point, keeping everything is not saving you money. It's costing you money — both the duplicate purchase and the time spent looking for things.
Old Richmond Houses and the Storage Problem
If you live in one of Richmond's older neighborhoods — Forest Hill, Westover Hills, Woodland Heights, Church Hill — you already know the closet situation. Homes built in the 1920s through 1940s were designed for people who owned a lot less stuff than we do. The closets are shallow and narrow, there's no walk-in anything, and the "master closet" is typically a 24-inch-deep alcove with a wooden rod and a single shelf.
This makes the keeping-versus-tossing decision more urgent, because you simply don't have the square footage to defer it.
The two places people typically turn to for overflow — attics and sheds — are not the answer most people think they are. An uninsulated Richmond attic hits 130 degrees in July and drops below freezing in January. That temperature cycling destroys electronics, warps wood, cracks plastic, and turns cardboard boxes into insect habitats.
(Side note: I used to think plastic was non-degradable, since they told us in school that it would outlast humanity by tens of thousands of years. That may be true for tiny pieces of plastic, but it's amazing how easily plastic containers from IKEA can shatter like glass after a few years of attic heat.)
How I Handle It Now
I'm not going to pretend I've solved this. But in addition to the "how much is costing me in storage" (in reasonable cubic-feet terms), I have some mantras that I find useful:
"You had your chance." When I clean out the refrigerator, and that glass of olives is still there from the last time I was cleaning out the fridge, it goes into the trash (or: olives into compost, glass into recycling). Even though it still smells delicious, and theoretically I like olives on pizza, I'll clearly never use it for some unknown reason.
"If I did a yard sale, would anyone buy it?" If I would feel mildly embarrassed to ask even for a dollar for the item, it's clearly trash. More so when I even can't get myself to put it next to the curb with a sign "FREE."
"Would person XYZ keep this in their house?" I've known people with really nice living spaces. They were better at tossing things than me. Aiming to imitate your private tidyness hero is a bit like the "What would Jesus do?" thing, except replace Jesus with that person whose living space never had some spare bicycle tube in the corner waiting to be patched.
Another item to consider: getting help
I haven't lived with someone in a long time, but when I still did, it was always good to get feedback during the process of decluttering.
The actual physical work of sorting, hauling, and reorganizing can be easier (and more fun!) with another person, to use as a sounding board. It's surprisingly helpful to have someone else in the room who can say "when was the last time you used this?" and keep you honest. - Granted, it doesn't work as well on the show "Hoarders." This blog article assumes you're not so far gone that you have to hang on to every empty cardboard box, or navigate your place via "goat trails" between huge piles of stuff.
The Goal Isn't Empty — It's Functional
I don't think the goal should be a house that looks like a catalog. Real homes have stuff in them. People who do projects, cook meals, pursue hobbies, and raise families accumulate things — that's normal and fine.
The goal is being able to find what you own, use the space you're paying for, and not feel that low-grade stress that comes from living in a space that's working against you instead of for you.
At a minimum, create several "oasis" in your space clean of any clutter. For my RVA Tech Help business I now sacrificed a bedroom, where I store everything I possibly need to help people with tech and other projectsc. Previously all that stuff was in various shelves and dressers all over the house. It feels really good, when I look for something now, to know at least the exact room it is in.
If you're at the point where the closets are overflowing, the shed is a lost cause, and you've bought the same thing twice because you couldn't find the first one — an afternoon of focused sorting and hauling can make a dramatic difference. I'm happy to come by and help with the heavy lifting, the decision-making, and listing items for sale / preparing a yard sale.
Sometimes the most useful thing another person brings isn't muscle — it's momentum.
— Johanna