The Things We Keep

There's a disposable straw in a wrapper somewhere in one of my keepsake boxes. It's from the early 1990s. If someone were to find it, they'd throw it away. It just looks like a really old disposable straw with a worn wrapper. It's been years since I took it out but I find comfort in knowing it's there.

It's from the candy shop my dad took me to in my senior year of high school after my boyfriend broke up with me and I had to sell my horse. At the time, I felt that I'd lost all the things I'd loved. My dad was concerned about me. I don't remember exactly what he said but he listed all the things I was dealing with and he expressed his concern.

When he verbalized what had happened to me, it validated my feelings and it helped me during a time when I felt helpless. Until he said those things, I'd kept telling myself that I shouldn't be so sad. I'd told my mom that I wanted to see a therapist to help me but she asked me to wait. I never understood why. When my dad named my losses out loud, I began to understand that I had a reason to be sad.

On some level, I think I felt that I'd lost the things I'd loved because I wasn't lovable. If I was lovable, I wouldn't have lost those things. If I was lovable, my parents would have tried harder to heal themselves and worked on their relationship. My boyfriend wouldn't have dumped me and promptly replaced me within the month with a lookalike girlfriend—her name even rhymed with mine. I wouldn't have had to sell my horse, which was such a painful episode that when I told a friend about it years later, I broke down in tears.

I was so distraught that day at the candy shop. But I remember holding that disposable straw and wanting to keep it because it reminded me that someone recognized I was in pain and was concerned for me. They loved me even though I didn't feel loved.

I understand now what I couldn't have articulated then. That straw was evidence. Evidence that I was cared for and loved, however imperfectly, in a moment when I felt completely rejected, replaceable, and unlovable. I wasn't sure why I kept it at first — I just knew I couldn't throw it away. As I've gotten older, I've come to understand that it represents something I needed to hold onto: the belief that no matter what is happening, or how I feel, there will always be a part of me that is lovable. It's one of the few things I've kept that's maintained its meaning — and has grown in value over time.

It never mattered to me that people might think that straw is worthless. To me, it has meaning and that's why I kept it.

Not everything I've kept has meant as much as that straw. I keep ticket stubs, notes, cards, and letters — things that help me remember who I was with and what I did, people and moments I want to carry forward. But I've also held on to things longer than I should have. Notes from coworkers fifteen years ago. Objects that belonged to a version of me who is no longer here.

Letting go of them was harder than it should have been. It can feel like you're releasing part of yourself. But I've found that when I'm brave enough to let go of something I've been clinging to disproportionately, it's very liberating. Those notes were written to a different woman. I don't need to hold on to that. I can be thankful I had time with those people and then let go.

Marie Kondo helped me with this — her idea that we keep only what brings us joy. Simple in theory. Surprisingly difficult in practice. Because what we keep isn't always about joy. Sometimes it's about grief. Sometimes it's about fear. Sometimes it's about a girl who needed proof that someone loved her.

Women in midlife have learned what's worth holding on to. We have perspective that only comes from surviving our youth and coming out on the other side. We have our regrets — things we held onto too long, things we let go of too quickly. And hopefully, we've earned the wisdom to know the difference. To hold on or let go without those regrets. To forgive ourselves when we don't.

What we keep changes over time. What we're willing to release changes too. The straw I kept at seventeen was about survival. The things I let go of now are about trust — trust that I don't need the evidence anymore. That I know who I am without it.

When I send a letter to someone's mailbox each month, I never assume they'll want to keep it. If they do, I want it to be worth keeping. I want it to make them feel remembered every time they read it.

A letter in an envelope. A mantra card. A ticket stub. A straw in a worn wrapper at the bottom of a keepsake box. Someone else might not see it. But the person who kept it does.

xo Trace