I Wasn’t Sorting Photos. I Was Sorting Decisions.

I spent last Friday night in our attic digging through an old storage container. It was quiet and cold up there with the smell of the unfinished wood still clinging to the walls.

I sat on the floor and pulled out old photo albums I’d been avoiding since my mother passed in 2022. She kept everything. Every report card from kindergarten through senior year was in there too, which made me laugh and cringe a little at my early high school performance.

I worked my way through the albums, peeling back the film and pulling out the photos worth keeping. There were the embarrassing baby pictures, obligatory prom photos, and several life milestones captured along the way.

Halfway through one album, I found a photo of my father and me from the biggest snowstorm I remember at the North Carolina coast. Christmas 1989. The only time I ever saw Bogue Sound in our backyard frozen over.

I remembered him walking about half a mile through the snow to the convenience store to get milk, only to realize he’d forgotten his wallet. That memory stopped me for a moment. I smiled.

Halfway through the boxes, I realized I wasn’t sorting photos. I was sorting parts of my life.

For years, I’ve held onto things for reasons that had nothing to do with storage.

Some of those old storage bins were proof. The old photos and college textbooks were visible reminders of how hard I worked to become who I am. Letting go felt like disrespecting the effort it took to get here.

And then something began to click.

I do the same thing at work.

I’ve stayed on committees longer than I should. I kept projects I used to love even after the joy faded. I’ve kept saying yes to things that once fit, even when they no longer do.

I’ve started calling this identity storage.

It isn’t just clutter or unfinished decisions. It’s an older version of myself I’m not quite ready to release.

To keep myself on track, I set a couple ground rules.

One hour or one box, whichever comes first.
Two piles only. Keep, or let it go.

I also set a clear boundary to stop. I did go a bit longer than an hour because I tend to do that, but the rule still helped keep me moving.

The boundary did more than organize boxes. It forced closure.

The biggest difference I noticed was how much lighter I felt. Not because there was one less storage container in my attic, but because I made decisions and moved forward.

That freed up some mental space and made something else clearer too.

I want fewer things hanging over me this year and more clean endings.

Over the past year, I’ve applied a similar rule to my work.

I’m stepping away from a committee I’ve been on for eight years. I simply stayed on longer than I needed to. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was the right one for the season I’m in.

When you let go of something that no longer fits, you don’t just get time back. You get some energy back too. And you also stop carrying around the weight of something unfinished.

If you want to run a small test of your own this week, here’s an easy place to start.

Take ten minutes and write two lists.

List one: what you are already committed to this week.
List two: what is taking up space that you wouldn’t choose again today.

Then paste both lists into whatever AI tool you use and ask:

Help me sort this into three buckets: keep for now, pause until later, and let go.
For each item, note the main tradeoff.

I like this approach because it helps me see the tradeoffs faster, especially when everything feels equally important in my head.

What’s one work commitment you wouldn’t choose again today?

If you want to, email me and tell me yours. One sentence is fine.

You don’t have to act on it right away. Sometimes just naming it is enough to create a little space. And that’s a good place to start the year.

Until next time.