As I took part in an elementary school tour, while other parents were preoccupied with the educational philosophies and teacher credentials, my attention was irresistibly drawn to the meticulously organized bins. I mean, I was curious about the timing of circle time versus free play and how that would influence my children’s future, but those perfectly aligned plastic containers labelled “Art Supplies,” “Blocks,” and “Numbers” stole my focus. This place was vibrant and orderly—this was it. I thought to myself. Perhaps this was the perfect school for my children—or maybe just for me.
You see, I am the embodiment of disorganization. My desk resembles a chaotic skyline of papers and random items. Right now, as I write, I notice loose Post-it notes scattered among old photographs, a lollipop, nail clippers, several receipts, a solitary earring, an outdated insurance card, vibrant bead bracelets crafted by little hands, headphones, hand lotion, and a mix of napkins. Not to mention, there are stacks of paper that include drafts of various writing projects, letters to respond to, and a friend’s manuscript waiting for feedback. To my left, a cluttered rack holds a jumble of return address stickers, incomplete medical bills, a brochure for an event that has long passed, a birthday gift certificate, and an envelope with the details of a soldier stationed overseas—I meant to write to him, but time slipped away, and his tour ended years ago.
In the corner, a plastic tub overflows with papers I “need to file,” though most of them will probably head straight to the trash eventually. I once discovered a “decluttering tips” article buried deep within the mess. My closet is no better, with clothes tossed haphazardly and shoes blocking access to… well, more shoes. Our pantry resembles a scavenger hunt, and finding anything within requires both courage and detective skills. The living room is a battleground of unread magazines, and our dining table is only partially usable due to the clutter of mail and daily necessities. I often joke with my partner that I’m just one crisis away from a reality TV feature.
This disarray isn’t just a visual nuisance or a source of shame; it reflects a deeper issue. The constant reminders of what I should be organizing distract me, leaving me unable to concentrate. My environment is cluttered, which translates to a cluttered mind. I find myself staring at unopened envelopes and instead of addressing them, I look away, overwhelmed by the chaos. Despite this, I manage to keep clean clothes on our backs and dinner on the table, even if the laundry lives in baskets for far too long. I hold down a job and meet deadlines, albeit often at the last minute. When visiting friends, I can’t help but marvel at their pristine homes, feeling a pang of envy and wondering about their secrets.
My partner, who once had a strict system for managing receipts, has become a shell of his former neat-freak self. When we first cohabited, he spent an entire day shredding three years’ worth of my bills. However, he eventually realized that chasing after me with a recycling bin wasn’t a sustainable approach. Now, he maintains a small oasis of organization on his desk, managing our bills and keeping us out of financial trouble.
I’ve come to identify as a “pre-hoarder,” a title I inherited from my family’s history of clutter. My parents were masters at keeping things, and we often started projects that never reached completion. I recall a half-finished painting job in our hallway that perfectly mirrored the disarray of our family life during my parents’ divorce. That chaotic upbringing instilled a habit of not finishing things—one that has followed me into adulthood. Mornings often see me racing around the house, frazzled and searching for misplaced socks while my family looks on in bemusement.
I want to change this pattern, not just for myself but for my children. I don’t want them to grow up surrounded by chaos. I strive for them to be able to discard items without hesitation, rather than wade through the remnants of my disorganization. My goal is for them to experience the clarity and presence that comes with an orderly environment.
So what’s the solution? It requires action. Each day, I commit to letting go of one item and pushing aside thoughts of the past. I remind myself that the dusty object in my hand doesn’t hold the key to my youth or quell any childhood fears. It’s a process, and I’m getting there—slowly but surely.
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In summary, I’m on a journey to transform my chaotic habits into a more organized lifestyle, and I’m determined to create a better environment for my children to thrive in.
Keyphrase: parenting disorganization
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