Things We Threw Out Moving In Together — and What I Wish We'd Kept

A reflection on the decluttering decisions made during the merge, and the ones that still sting

We were ruthless. That's the word I'd use for how we approached moving in together. We were going to be intentional, we said. We were going to start fresh. We were not going to haul a decade of accumulated stuff into a shared home and then spend the next five years maneuvering around it.

So we purged. Bags and boxes of things, donated or discarded or left on the curb with a 'free' sign. We were pleased with ourselves. We felt light. We had made decisions, and decisions feel like progress.

And then, over the months that followed, certain absences started to make themselves known.

This is the piece I wish I'd read before we did any of it.

The things we donated too fast

The move is a high-pressure environment for decision-making. You're tired, you're on a timeline, and every object in front of you is asking you to make a judgment call. In that state, the easiest decision is 'get rid of it' — and so you do, faster than you probably should.

The first category I over-purged: kitchen tools. Not the obvious duplicates — the duplicates needed to go. But in my enthusiasm for a clean, edited kitchen, I also got rid of things that were one-of-a-kind useful. The box grater I'd had for years and always relied on. A good-quality cast iron skillet that I donated because we already had one (we did; his was worse). A set of mismatched but functional mixing bowls that I replaced mentally with the set we were 'going to buy together' and then never did. The new set still hasn't happened. I've been making do without mixing bowls for eight months.

'I'll replace it with something better' is a sentence to treat with suspicion during a move. Sometimes you do. Often you don't, because the urgency disappears the moment the boxes are unpacked.

The sentimental items — the real ones

This one is harder to write about.

There's a category of sentimental objects that you know matters, and you protect them accordingly. The photos, the heirlooms, the things with obvious emotional weight. Those were mostly fine. What I didn't anticipate was the second tier — the things that didn't feel sentimental until they were gone.

I donated a stack of paperbacks I'd been meaning to reread. They felt like clutter. A shelf of books I'd already read, taking up space in a new home we were trying not to crowd. Practical decision. Logical decision. And then later, on a rainy Sunday when I wanted to pull one of them down, I remembered I'd given it away. It wasn't irreplaceable, exactly. But it was mine, in the specific way that a book you've carried through multiple moves becomes yours. I missed it in a way I hadn't expected.

My partner let go of a box of his father's things — not the important ones, but the everyday ones. An old watch that didn't keep perfect time. A set of tools in a beat-up tin case. At the time they felt like clutter that would just collect dust. Now he wishes he'd found a place for them. The watch especially.

There's something about objects that have been held by someone you loved. They don't necessarily have monetary value or even perfect sentimental logic — you can't always explain why they matter. But they hold a weight that's hard to account for in the middle of a move, when weight is the last thing you want more of. If something belonged to a person who is gone, or someone you love, the safer choice is almost always to keep it. You can always donate it later, from a place of calm rather than pressure.

The practical regrets (smaller, but still annoying)

Somewhere in the purge, I got rid of:

A perfectly good rain jacket that was slightly too large. I have not replaced it. I am often damp.

An entire set of extra bedding. We had two sets each — obviously too many, obviously we'd keep the best ones. Which we did. And now when the sheets are in the wash, we have nothing to swap in and have to wait around for them like it's 1987.

A handful of cords and chargers I couldn't immediately identify. At least one of them was for something important. I still don't know what.

A serving platter that seemed too large for daily use. I have needed a large serving platter for five separate occasions since then.

None of these are tragedies. They're just small, consistent reminders that I moved too fast through the practical category, too eager to feel finished.

What actually works: the slow approach

The advice I've heard and now fully believe: box it before you donate it.

For anything that isn't an obvious discard — trash, broken things, true duplicates — put it in a labeled box and store it. Give yourself sixty or ninety days. If you haven't opened the box to retrieve something, that's real information. Donate the whole box without reopening it. But if you've reached in three times for the cast iron skillet, you know what to do.

This approach feels slower in the moment. But the move is not the right emotional context for making permanent decisions about things you've lived with for years. The urgency is artificial. The regret, when it comes, is real.

What I'm glad we kept

Here's what the regrets taught me to look at differently: the things we kept thoughtfully are the ones we don't think about much, because they're just working quietly in the background of our shared life.

We kept a cast iron pan that I'd had since my first apartment. I fought for it a little, even though we already had another. It's the one I reach for every morning.

We kept the ugly lamp with the good light. The one my partner argued for and I rolled my eyes at. He was correct about the lamp.

The lesson from all of it, I think, is that the goal of the purge isn't to get down to as little as possible. It's to get down to what's actually yours — the things you chose, the things that work, and the things that carry something real. Everything else can go. But you have to know the difference before you decide, and that's the part a move makes harder, not easier.

Slow down. The donation center will still be there next month.

If you're about to move in together and you're reading this: for anything sentimental, box it and wait. For anything practical you're not sure about, box it and wait. For the duplicates — yes, fine, donate the extra spatulas. You don't need seven.