creating space
the (surprisingly) emotional process of clearing old relics from my room
This weekend I was tasked with cleaning out one area of my room - the corner of my room. All that area contained was a simple 4 ft. by 4 ft. organizing unit that had nine squares in it. A pretty basic task.
But this was no ordinary unit. Through all the changes in my room - when my brother and I de-bunked our beds and moved them to separate sides of the room, when I went to college and we removed a bed, when I returned from college after graduation and added a standing desk, and more - one thing remained unchanged. That organizing unit. It’s something I’ve taken so for granted that I didn’t truly see it most times I looked at it. It was the backdrop of my childhood and adolescence; the backdrop of every experience I’ve had within my room.
What did it contain?
A massive visual book on science. I once read it every single night, but one day I closed it for the last time, leaving it to collect dust atop the unit and serve as a paperweight for the last however many years.
My old Wii and PlayStation 2. It contained the games that first immersed me in the Star Wars and Harry Potter worlds, but they were worlds that I hadn’t visited in over a decade.
My notes from my debate rounds. A massive, 10-inch stack of paper that contained the arguments from the hundreds of debate rounds I competed in. Arguments that once consumed every single one of my waking thoughts, but ones that have scarcely crossed my mind in the years since.
My trophies from DECA and debate. There were many; from all over and in all shapes and sizes. My heart once swelled with pride every time I looked at them; now they only occasionally elicit a bittersweet smile as I reminisce times long past.
My high school yearbook. An object I once treasured; I remember parading around the school to secure signatures and notes from people I never wanted to forget. I’ve scarcely opened it once since it came home; most of those notes have gone unread or been long forgotten.
And much more.
See this task wasn’t so simple because I couldn’t easily remove all these objects. They were immovable. Heavy as concrete. Superglued into the design of my room. Because, never having been touched in the last few years, they might as well have been.
Why were these objects still in my room? Why were they so heavy? Why were they so immovable? What were they filled with? What did they represent?
They contained dreams.
The video games contained the dreams of a child whose infatuation with magic and quests led him to diving headfirst into the beautiful worlds created within the games. It contained the innocent dream to be a hero; to simply have to complete a quest rescue a fair maiden to earn the admiration of all and live happily ever after.
The science book contained the dreams of a preteen whose insatiable curiosity and thirst for knowledge led him to devouring those pages over and over again. It contained the naive and impossible dream to one day learn everything there was to learn. A dream which soon morphed into the even more naive and impossible dream to one day have every single person in the world know my name; to one day be written in the history books along with the scientists and pioneers I idolized.
The debate notes contained the dreams of a teenager whose competitive spirit and desire to excel led him to pursuing mastery in the art of policy debate. It contained the dream to be recognized as the best debater in the country. Within each page was an attention to detail, a determination to improve, and a passion to learn how to articulate why my arguments were the best.
They also contain pain.
The high school yearbook contained the pain of broken friendships, faded away with the passage of time. Each bright, glistening portrait inside bitterly contrasts with how the people in those images that I loved, the relationships that I treasured, have eroded into wistful memories.
Why does it have to be this way? Do these people still remember me? What did I do wrong?
The debate trophies contained the pain of unfulfilled potential. An award from the first national debate competition of high school senior year proved to me that I had the potential to belong in the pantheon of the elite. But like Icarus who only got to enjoy the ecstasy of flight for only a few brief moments, that brief flirtation with success didn’t last. After being met with disappointment after disappointment at the next few tournaments, I cracked under the pressure I put on myself and quit debate halfway through the year. It’s the only time I’ve quit something in my entire life, and I regret that decision every day. I would give so much to have the chance to debate just one more time.
Why didn’t I have the strength to persevere? Does my debate coach know how grateful I am for her? Why do I always come up just short? Do I just not have what it takes? Could this story have had a different ending if I pushed through?
In essence, they contained parts of me.
Reflected in the video game disks, I saw my child-self looking back at me, eager to explore.
Reflected in the pages of the science book, I saw my preteen-self looking back at me, eyes wide with wonder.
Reflected in the gleam of the debate trophy, I saw my teenage-self looking back at me, enamored by the validation the trophy brought, but shattered by the disappointment that soon followed.
It all happened so fast.
Cleaning that corner area was a surprisingly quick endeavor. The objects that had seemed immovable were lighter than air, as if signaling it was time for them to go; to leave the perch upon which they had silently observed me over the years.
I wasn’t really thinking during the process. Within an hour, everything was out of the room, categorized into trash, donation, and keepsake piles.
All that was left was a musky smell and a lot of dust. I opened my windows, turned on my fan, and left to let the room air out.
I reentered my room a few hours later. The dust was almost done clearing out, and in sharp contrast to the feeling of heaviness that permeated my room earlier, there was a lightness; an airiness; some space to breathe.
It quickly dawned on me that my task wasn’t complete yet. I wasn’t done clearing out old relics yet. For it wasn’t just the objects that held the dreams and the pain for the past - they still existed inside me. They were hidden and repressed, buried under layer upon layer of denial and immaturity. But they were still present, yearning to be released.
And so release I did.
They effortlessly flowed out of me in the form of tears. One drop contained the unfulfilled dreams of my childhood, the next the unhealed pain. It was a cathartic and beautiful process, watching feelings I’d forgotten I’d experienced arise and flow out of me.
In the end, the feeling I was left with wasn’t one of emptiness, but rather one of tremendous gratitude. I felt gratitude towards my science book for daring me to dream big when I felt small. I felt gratitude towards my debate trophy for reminding me of my capacity for greatness when I felt weak.
But more than anything, I felt gratitude towards all these objects for helping me carry a pain that I hadn’t learned to carry by myself; for sharing my burden and letting me persist in my innocence for just a little bit longer.
What’s next for these objects?
Some will be thrown out. They’ll eventually be decomposed or destroyed, creating the raw materials from which something new may be born.
Some will be recycled. Perhaps the video games that gave me beautiful worlds to explore will be given a chance to provide that experience to another gracious child.
Some will be preserved. Maybe the science book that filled me with so much inspiration will fulfill the same purpose for my kids one day.
Regardless, the cycle of life will continue. They’ll continue flowing from one purpose to the next; freed from my employ and the burden of carrying parts of me.
What’s next for me?
I’m not quite sure. All I know is that it was high time to let go; to transcend the dreams and the pain that I let define me for too long. I’m starting to learn how to carry my own pain instead of distributing to my possessions; to heal instead of repress. I’m starting to see that the comfort of finding myself in the objects around me pales in comparison to the wholeness and completeness I feel when finding myself from within.
Just like my objects are free from the burden of carrying me, I’m free of the burden of carrying pain that isn’t truly mine.
I’m grateful for my child-self for having the curiosity to read and the imagination to dream, but his pain isn’t mine anymore. I’m grateful for my preteen-self for having the courage to explore, but his pain isn’t mine anymore. I’m grateful for my teenage-self for having the hunger and passion to achieve, but his pain isn’t mine anymore.
I can learn from all of them, but they no longer define me. I’ve finally created space. In the same way that parts of a forest must burn before they can regrow revitalized with new life, the creation of this space was a necessary precursor for me to truly grow and transcend.
What will take up this space? Who knows. But I’m excited to find out.