A few springs ago, my friend Karen came over for coffee. She’s the kind of person who says exactly what she thinks (she always has been), and I love that about her. Most of the time.
We were sitting at the kitchen table when she asked if she could grab a glass from the cabinet. I said sure. And then I watched her open the door and just stand there.
“Alison,” she said, “how many glasses do you actually need?”
I laughed it off. But after she left, I opened that cabinet again and counted. Thirty-four drinking glasses. For a household of two.
That night I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I started looking around.
Really looking.
Not the quick glance you do when company’s coming, but the kind where you open every drawer and closet and just sit with what you see.
The spare bedroom had become a storage room sometime in the last five years (I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when). The hall closet hadn’t fully closed in months. My garage had boxes along the back wall that I’d moved from our old house and never opened.
None of it looked like what you see on those TV shows. My home was clean. Everything was behind closed doors. But behind those doors, things had been quietly piling up for years.
That’s when the thought first crossed my mind.
Am I a hoarder?
It felt like a dramatic thing to even think. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized it was worth asking. Not to scare myself, but to understand why I was holding onto so much and what it was really costing me.
Disclosure: A quick note before we go further. This post is based on my own experience and personal observations. I am not a doctor or therapist. If you’re struggling with hoarding in a way that’s affecting your daily life, your safety, or your relationships, please reach out to your doctor or a mental health professional. There is real help available, and asking for it is nothing to be ashamed of.