Stuff You’ll Regret Dragging to Your New Place (Yes, Even That)

Moving is one of those rare moments where you realize your life is 30% stuff you use, and 70% stuff you forgot you had but suddenly feel weirdly attached to. It starts out optimistic—"fresh start!" vibes, a new space, a cleaner chapter. And then, somewhere between the third cardboard box labeled “random junk drawer things” and the existential dread of bubble-wrapping your past, reality hits: you're bringing way too much.

Sure, it’s easy to toss old Tupperware lids and jeans from your “maybe I’ll lose five pounds” era. But the real culprits are sneakier—the guilt-ridden, space-hogging items that whisper “you might need me someday” as you carry them from house to house like emotional support clutter.

Like that tangled mess of mystery cords. You don't know what they’re for. You’ve had them since the iPod Nano era. But they remain—just in case. A physical shrine to indecision, electronic FOMO, and the haunting idea that maybe, maybe, you’ll need to charge a 2009 Bluetooth speaker again. Spoiler: you won’t.

Then there's the collection of hobby supplies you swore would change your life. Remember when you were going to learn guitar? Or watercolor? Or crochet a cottagecore wardrobe and start an Etsy empire? What’s left now is a graveyard of “someday” crafts and unopened creative potential stuffed into bins labeled “misc art stuff.” You don’t need to move the guilt. You need to Marie Kondo the pipe dreams.

Speaking of dreams, let’s talk about that treadmill. You know, the one that's seen more laundry draped over it than sweat. It was a solid purchase at the time—a declaration of fitness goals and new beginnings. But let’s face it: if it’s been doubling as a clothes rack since your last move, you’re not suddenly going to become a cardio queen mid-unpack. Leave it for someone with more free time and less laundry.

And while we’re dragging regret across city lines, let’s not forget the custom curtains. They were perfect… for the old house. You saved them because they were expensive, because they were “still good,” because they made the dining room feel like a Nancy Meyers movie set. But guess what? They don’t fit your new windows. They never will. Now they’re just extra fabric taking up precious space and silently judging your new minimalist goals.

Oh, and the paint cans. The ones you’ve been carting around like toxic souvenirs from every wall you’ve ever painted. “I might need it for touch-ups,” you say, despite having no idea what shade “Whispering Almond” even is anymore. Let them go. They’ve served their purpose. Their next purpose is being responsibly disposed of—not stacked like awkward, rusting legacies in your new garage.

Then there’s the heirloom furniture you feel emotionally blackmailed by. It was Grandma’s, and no one else wanted it, so now it’s yours by default. Except it’s massive. And ugly. And makes your mid-century modern dreams cry. Moving it again won’t bring back the warm family memories—it’ll just bring another pulled muscle and more floorplan resentment.

And finally, we arrive at the kitchen gadgets. Oh, the gadgets. The juicer that takes 30 minutes to clean. The pasta maker you used once for Instagram clout. The bread machine you swore you’d fall in love with during lockdown and then promptly ghosted. These aren't culinary tools. They're heavy, awkward symbols of aspirations that never quite made it past checkout.

Bottom line: moving is not just a physical relocation—it’s a chance to stop living in the museum of Past You. Don't pack your guilt. Don't box up your “what-ifs.” Just because something made sense in your old life doesn’t mean it deserves a ride into your next one.

Cut the clutter. Embrace the chaos. And maybe, just maybe, donate the pasta maker.