On my way home from the farmers market yesterday, I noticed a cluster of clutter resting in a roadside ravine—plastic bottles, pop cans, a capsized vending machine.
Of course, that trash
didn’t appear overnight.
It accumulated over time.
A few blocks from the detritus, I spotted a benevolently vandalized stop sign; a well-placed sticker gave the red octagon a new meaning: “STOP LITTERING.”
Ironic, I know.
Moments later, I realized I might need one of those signs in my own home. When I walked through the door, I was greeted by a smattering of knickknacks near my daughter’s room: a pair of shoes, a bike helmet, one lone sock.
No big deal—yet.
But if we wait, it will be.
Before we blink, a baby lizard becomes Godzilla.
Naturally, it would be easier—for both of us—if I simply cleaned up my daughter’s stuff for her. But that seemingly kind gesture would rob her of the dignity of decluttering.
Self-worth and maturity develop when we learn to tend to our own messes:
The unmade bed.
Toothpaste in the sink.
Makeup by the mirror.
Toiletries on the counter.
Because someday the messes will grow more difficult to navigate:
Financial obligations.
Office conflict.
Heartbreak.
Loss.
And if my daughter can’t face her small messes today, how will she confront life’s larger difficulties tomorrow?
That’s why I teach her to declutter.
Sure, I’d like for her to have a tidy room.
But I’d much rather she develop resilience.
It’s true, clutter accumulates slowly.
So does character.
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