Escape Consumerism: Freedom From More

No More Someday

What We Find in a “Someday” Box

It was tucked away in the back of the closet, behind an old suitcase and a pair of boots I hadn’t worn since the job I left three years ago.

The box was labeled in faded Sharpie: Someday.

I don’t even remember writing it. But the second I saw that word, something in my chest tightened.

I knew what was inside.

Art supplies I hadn’t touched. A notebook for a novel I never started. Fabric for clothes I didn’t sew. Sheet music from the piano lessons I said I’d go back to. A camera lens still in its packaging.

It wasn’t junk. It was aspiration.

Every item carried a little hope I used to have. A version of me I thought I’d become. And suddenly I felt like I was looking straight at all the ways I had let myself down.

That’s the problem with clutter and delayed dreams—it doesn’t just take up physical space. It takes up emotional space. Mental space. Identity space. And when you open a box like that, you're not just sorting stuff. You're sorting disappointment. Grief. Pressure. Guilt.

There’s a name for it, actually—people call it “someday syndrome.” That pattern of holding onto things for a life you’re not living. A version of yourself you thought you’d be by now. A fantasy of productivity or talent or freedom that feels stuck behind the noise of your actual life.

And if you’ve ever found yourself asking “What’s hiding in your storage space?”—this is what you might find: proof that you once believed in possibility… and a quiet ache that you’re not sure you still do.

That box held more than objects.

It held versions of me I hadn’t said goodbye to.

When Holding On Feels Safer Than Letting Go

I sat with that box on the floor for a long time.

At first, I tried to tell myself it was practical to keep these things. What if I finally had time to learn? What if I needed them later? What if letting them go meant I was giving up on myself?

But deep down, I knew those were stories.

That box wasn’t about tools or potential—it was about identity.

Letting go felt scary because those items represented the kind of person I thought I needed to be: creative, artistic, well-rounded, impressive. And if I let them go, what was left? Would I still be enough without all that “someday” potential?

It felt like throwing away a dream.

But I started to realize something else too.

Holding on wasn’t helping me become that version of myself. It was keeping me stuck in a loop—tangled in guilt, weighed down by unfinished projects, constantly reminded of what I hadn’t done.

It was a quiet kind of self-punishment. The kind that looks like hope on the surface, but underneath is just fear.

And if you’ve ever felt that kind of fear—of letting go, of wasting potential, of choosing peace instead of pressure—you might want to revisit The Day I Stopped Trying to Prove Myself. That moment helped me realize I was allowed to release dreams I didn’t want anymore.

Sometimes we hold on because we’re afraid that if we stop chasing, we’ll be nothing.

But I’ve learned: sometimes letting go is the only way to come home to who you really are.

What I Was Actually Carrying

As I sorted through the contents of the box, it stopped feeling like a collection of things.

It started feeling like a map of my past attempts to be someone better.

Each item carried its own kind of pressure:

I realized I wasn’t just carrying hobbies—I was carrying shame. Carrying the stories I had attached to those objects. Stories about worth. Stories about potential. Stories about the version of me I thought I needed to become in order to matter.

And I think this is what makes decluttering so emotional. We’re not just deciding what to keep. We’re deciding who we’re still trying to be.

I talked about this feeling in Debt Paralysis, when I shared how spending sometimes becomes a way to build an identity we’re scared we don’t already have. That same energy shows up in “someday” boxes, too—except instead of debt, you’re left with dusty promises and silent grief.

The weight wasn’t in the box. It was in what it meant.

And the longer I kept it, the more it kept me from feeling free.

Letting Go Isn’t Giving Up

I didn’t empty the box in one sitting.

Some things were easy to release—a dried-out glue stick, tangled embroidery floss, receipts for materials I never used.

But other things took longer.

I held the paintbrushes in my hand and remembered a version of me who believed she could be an artist. I looked at the camera lens and heard the voice that said, “You’re wasting your potential.”

And yet… when I asked myself honestly—Do I still want this life? This version of me?—the answer surprised me.

Not really.

Not because it was a bad dream. But because it wasn’t mine anymore.

And that’s what I wish someone had told me years ago:
Letting go of someday isn’t giving up. It’s choosing alignment over obligation.
It’s choosing presence over performance.
It’s choosing freedom over fantasy.

Sometimes we outgrow our old hopes. Sometimes the dream doesn’t fit anymore. And when that happens, it’s okay to grieve it. And it’s okay to release it.

You are not a failure for walking away from something that no longer feels like home.

That’s something we explore deeply in Ideas vs Gatekeepers, where we talk about redefining success on our own terms—even when that means starting over.

Every item I let go of made more space.

Not just in my closet.
But in my mind.
And in my heart.

What I Kept — and Why

I didn’t get rid of everything.

I kept one sketchbook—the one that still felt exciting to open.
I kept a single fabric swatch I loved the feel of.
I kept a journal, not because I thought I’d write a book, but because I realized I still wanted to write something.

Not for achievement. Not for proof. Just because it felt good.

That was the difference.

The old box was built on pressure.
The new version—the one that sits neatly on a shelf now—is built on possibility.

It holds things that feel like invitations, not obligations.

And the funny thing is, once I cleared out the “shoulds,” I actually started using what I kept. Not out of guilt, but because the clutter wasn’t smothering me anymore.

There’s a kind of clarity that only comes from releasing the noise.

Letting go didn’t erase my creative desires.
It made room for the real ones to breathe.

What “No More Someday” Means Now

No more someday doesn’t mean I gave up on growth.

It means I stopped waiting to live.

I stopped waiting to feel ready.
I stopped waiting to be more impressive.
I stopped waiting until everything was perfect before allowing myself to try—or to rest.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe life doesn’t start when we finally become the version of ourselves we planned on.
Maybe it starts when we get honest about what matters now.
And when we let go of the rest.

That old box didn’t just hold clutter.

It held a permission slip I didn’t know I needed.

To live today, not in some hypothetical future.
To begin here.
To want less, and feel more.
To let peace take up space where guilt used to live.

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