A few months ago, my landlord decided it was time to increase the rent yet again. The new rent wasn’t realistically affordable, so I made the tough choice to give up my lovely, massive two-bed flat where I’d spent the past three years of my life.
Because I had rented it unfurnished (minus the white goods), almost every item in the flat had to be moved. And oh, what a revelation that turned out to be.
In typical me fashion, I started small—collecting boxes, filling them up steadily, pacing myself. But somehow, there was always more. It felt like my things were regenerating when I turned my back. Forgotten items surfaced from drawers. Abandoned hobbies revealed themselves in dusty corners. The roller skates I bought during my “I’m-going-to-learn-skating” phase because Instagram made it look cool. The paints and sketchbooks I picked up when I was convinced I might be an artist. The random vases I brought home from the thrift store, still waiting for flowers.
So. Much. Stuff.
I kept going, packing faster, harder—but still, the piles of things mocked me.
It was humbling, because I often joke about being a minimalist. That move proved I am anything but. What I am, I realised, is a maximalist with good intentions. And the stress of sorting through my accumulated clutter prompted me to make a quiet promise to myself: going forward, I need to be more conscious of what I bring in and build in regular decluttering sessions, where I let go of what I no longer use, need, or value.
That whole moving saga also made me think about another kind of clutter—not the kind you trip over in your hallway, but the invisible kind that hides in our devices and seeps into our minds: digital clutter. And just like the boxes piling up in my flat, I realised how easily it can accumulate without us noticing.
After many years of being a heavy Twitter user, I recently “quit” cold turkey—something I honestly didn’t think was possible. One day, my timeline was buzzing about a leaked conversation, and I realised people were spending over thirty minutes listening to strangers talk, then pouring even more time into dissecting it online. I remember thinking, wait, how is this a good use of anyone’s time? That moment switched something for me. I logged out, and since then I’ve barely remembered that my Twitter account even exists.
Unlike the mess of a flat, digital clutter doesn’t sit in plain sight. It creeps in quietly, until one day you realise your phone, your laptop, even your own head are full to the brim. There are the endless photos and screenshots you’ll never look at again, the files you download and immediately forget about, the inbox that fills itself while you’re not paying attention. Notifications too, from breaking news alerts to pings about someone liking a post you barely remember sharing, all merging into a constant drip of distraction.
And then there’s social media. Without meaning to, you collect strangers’ updates the way I collected forgotten hobbies. Bits of trivia about other people’s lives that you don’t actually need but somehow carry with you. Even your browser tabs can become clutter: each one a half-finished thought or a task you intended to get back to but never did. None of it seems overwhelming on its own, but together it creates the same effect as a flat filled with too many belongings: no room to move, no space to think.
And that leads me to the unsettling question: if all these fragments of unnecessary information are taking up space in our minds, surely our lives would feel less cluttered without them.
In this age of “interest media,” it’s easy to get swept up in other people’s thoughts and ideas. The algorithm is designed to feed you whatever catches your attention, and before you know it, you’re holding strong opinions about things that have zero impact on your actual life, things you’d have remained blissfully unaware of if you hadn’t logged on to Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, or whichever platform had your attention that day.
Just like with my flat, I’ve realised the answer isn’t a one-time purge but a habit of ongoing care. Every so often, I try to review my digital environment. Do I really need to see this? Do I really care about the subjects this person discusses? Does it still serve me? Sometimes that means unfollowing accounts that don’t spark joy or curiosity, or finally unsubscribing from emails I never actually read.
And yes, I’m still a maximalist with good intentions. Which means I’m still working through the eighteen thousand two hundred and sixty-six items of media on my phone. And I’m still trying to close the eleventy-million tabs scattered across four windows on my laptop.
But maybe this week, you could try one small thing. You could decide to unfollow that influencer whose views and values you do not share, unsubscribe from one email you never open, or close the tabs you know you’ll never come back to. Just one act of letting go is enough to remind you: the space you clear is yours to reclaim.
Recently I read
Amy and Isabelle by Elizabeth Strout. I discovered this book via one of the many newsletters I am subscribed to and I’m glad I did because it is not one I would have picked up otherwise.
At its heart, the story explores the complicated relationship between a mother and daughter, one that felt both particular to Amy and Isabelle and at the same time universally familiar. I was struck by how similar certain human experiences are, regardless of background, and Strout captures those nuances beautifully—the unspoken tensions, the misunderstandings, the love that sometimes hides beneath frustration.
The novel also weaves in themes of guilt and shame, and how choices made from those places often ripple outward with less-than-ideal consequences. What I appreciated most was how Strout takes the ordinary—the daily lives and quiet struggles of seemingly unremarkable people—and renders it complex, layered, and deeply human. Good read.
Time keeps ticking by, and life keeps rolling along. I’m doing my best to roll with it. A few weeks ago, I felt almost suffocated by overwhelm, but I’m glad to say I’ve found a steadier footing since then.
The days are getting shorter, and I’m already making plans to escape the cold this year, something I’m very much looking forward to.
I hope life is treating you kindly, and if it isn’t, I hope you can still find the strength to hang in there.
Here’s wishing you a week of clearing through the clutter, recognising what you truly need, and letting go of what you don’t.
I just decluttered my moms apartment and I feel this in my bones. But you see the digital clutter? I don't know whennnn I will get around to that. I am overwhelmed just thinking about it but thanks for the reminder.