I remember the drive home from Tahoe — the book Clear Your Clutter with Feng Shui sitting on the seat beside me. By the time I pulled into my driveway, I couldn’t wait. I dropped my bags, opened closets, and started pulling things out: sweaters that never fit, a painting I’d never loved, my grandmother’s china that felt more like duty than delight. Box after box filled, each trip to Goodwill leaving the house lighter, as if the walls themselves were exhaling.

That practice never left me. In my dining room sits an “outbox” — always ready for the next thing that no longer belongs. Everything around me now feels useful or beautiful. (Okay, except for one microwave, my partner insists on keeping. But love is a package deal, and I’ll take him over a clear counter any day.)