Now, anyone who knows me well would describe my house as tidy, neat, clean, and, let's be honest, stage-ready. It's friendly and welcoming but incredibly minimalist, with everything in its place. This isn't something I've recently adopted; I've always been this way. For me, a clear space equates to a clear mind.
I remember my dad reminding me, back when I lived with him in South Africa as an 18-year-old, that if you ever wanted to see how tidy I was, you only had to look at my room. I took such pride in my space; everything had a specific position, and I knew immediately if someone had been in my room. What was once just a bedroom that gave me solace over time extended to my home. But over time, it was no longer about my home being my safe space or haven. Something shifted.
What used to be a source of pride and peace in my bedroom gradually became a home I used to create control, hide in, and bury feelings. During my most demanding moments of mental clutter, my cleaning became obsessive, the one thing I could control (or at least, that's what I believed). If everything was clean, neat, and sorted, then maybe, just maybe, my mind would feel that way too.
It wasn't until we moved into the caravan that I really started to question my need to clean. Friends and family always teased me about being the "clean freak," the "Monica" of the group (any Friends fans?), and for years, I wore it like a badge of honour. But at its worst, you wouldn't have wanted to be around me. A single mark on the counter, a dish left in the sink, or a stray hair on the floor would drive me to the edge. The anxiety could be felt everywhere. My external world, so perfect, clean, tidy, and controlled, was an exact reflection of what I desperately tried to feel inside: calm, capable, clear, and in control.
But the most brutal truth I've learned, through the years and all the houses we've moved in and out of and eventually into the caravan, is this: you cannot change your outside environment if you haven't fixed the inside of your mind.
Oh, and this goes for any need to control your external environment. When you stop and ask yourself, "Why do I feel the need to control this situation?" The answer you get may not be something you want to admit. There'll undoubtedly be an unresolved emotional driver there - one that requires acknowledgement, embracing, and resolving.
Now, I can acknowledge what I was trying to achieve all those years ago. I have clarity both in my head and in my heart. My home is still clean and minimalist, but the need to control my emotions through the state of my house has disappeared.
As a friend began preparing for her travel, she recently asked me: how do you even start sorting and consolidating? What a fantastic question to ask me. I began by giving her a detailed list of steps to execute over the next few months. But ultimately, here's what I told her:
Take your time and notice what the items mean to you: When you must choose between paying for storage or fitting everything into a 22-foot caravan, suddenly, possessions lose their weight. If you're searching for worthiness, success, or pride in an object, you're looking in the wrong place. Don't keep things because you feel you should. Keep them because they serve you, you use them, and they genuinely bring value to your daily life.
Consider what to keep: In our family, we each have one emotional box, a single box filled with photos, sentimental items, and pieces of personal history. That box is filled with love, purity, and joy. And because it's just one box, every item inside carries real significance.
They don't live in the stuff: One of my biggest realisations came when I had to let go of some of my mum's belongings after she passed away. I had kept so many of her things, believing they would somehow keep her close to me. But I realised that holding onto them didn't mean I would think of her more, feel her love more, or prove that I was a good daughter. She isn't in those things. She's in my heart. She's in my mind.
This is the fundamental backbone of both cluttered minds and cluttered homes. When you ask yourself, "Why do I have all this stuff?" you see the more profound truth: we attach so much emotion to possessions. We assign meaning far beyond what they are (the sentimental value). What should be just an object transforms into something heavier, loaded with worthiness, pride, and sentiment.
When we fill our homes with objects we've subconsciously given power to, our external space becomes cluttered, and our minds follow suit. It's no wonder we feel overwhelmed. If we're constantly searching for something to make us feel whole, connected, and capable, we'll never find it because it's not in things. It's inside us.
It's true that a messy space can feel overwhelming. But let's be honest, that is a choice. Objects lying around don't make us feel anything. It's what we interpret them to mean that shapes our experience.
I've recognised that I process the world through what I see and feel. So, a messy space once felt like internal chaos to me. For someone else, it might not be the clutter but noise, unpredictability, or chaos in a different form. The reality we experience is shaped by how we interpret our surroundings.
Yes, a clean home does help us feel better. But the real work isn't in scrubbing, sorting, or decluttering; it's in understanding how we experience our space, what meaning we attach to it, and how we create clarity, space, and calm within our minds first.
Because when you master that, the external world will never hold power over your inner peace, no matter how messy.
Love Me x