I have a lot of stuff around my house. Knickknacks, little treasures, souvenirs, books, shot glasses from around the world, gifts people have given me, photographs of people I love, and things that probably look completely random to anyone who doesn’t know the story behind them.

My bookshelves are less of a decorating decision and more of a museum of my life.

I value gifts. Not necessarily because of what they cost, but because someone thought of me enough to choose something and give it to me. I remember the people, the places, and sometimes even the exact moment associated with the most ordinary objects.

Even a red coffee mug has sentimental value. I bought it during a period of my life when I was becoming a real adult. Apparently, adulthood came with a coffee mug. Who knew?

But there’s one thing I have held onto for decades. A flannel shirt my aunt bought me at an Orlando flea market.

It probably wouldn’t win any fashion awards. It isn’t particularly valuable, collectible, or even especially remarkable. But she bought it for me at a time when I didn’t have much. It was a small gesture, but it meant a great deal. And somehow, that shirt has traveled through decades of my life with me.

I’ll always keep it.

I think that’s the funny thing about sentimental objects. We aren’t really holding onto the object. We’re holding onto the memory, the person, the feeling, or the version of ourselves that existed when it came into our lives.

Photographs become reminders of people we miss. Souvenirs become reminders of places we’ve been. Gifts become reminders that someone cared. And sometimes an old flannel shirt becomes a reminder that someone showed up for us when we needed it.

Psychologically speaking, perhaps these objects are little anchors. They connect us to our history, our relationships, and the experiences that shaped us.

So, no, I don’t necessarily need to declutter my bookshelves. I know exactly what everything means, even if nobody else does.

And if you happen to suggest that I get rid of some of it, I will politely explain that you’re asking me to discard decades of emotional history.

Some things simply aren’t replaceable.

The shirt stays. The red mug stays. And the shot glasses from places I may never visit again definitely stay. I’m not collecting clutter. I’m collecting evidence that I’ve lived, loved, traveled, and been loved in return.