What objects tell the story of your life?

Hoarding Memories

    I’m a hoarder, and my room suffers the consequences. I’m a future archiologist’s dream and worst nightmare at the same time. I keep everything: bins of knick knacks, jars of uneaten candy, and old toys stuffed into overflowing storage boxes. My mom thinks half of it is trash, but each object, no matter how insignificant it seems, is a piece of my life.

Underneath my desk are mismatched boxes filled with souvenirs from my childhood. But rather than the scrapbooks or old pictures I’ve kept, Dum Dums hold the most nostalgia. The ziploc bag of Dum Dum wrappers I’ve stubbornly refused to throw away holds years of painstaking dedication. These wrappers were the first things I ever collected, and the origin of my hoarding tendencies. They’re a reminder of my humble, childish dreams: to collect every single flavor of my favorite candy. I was unafraid to explore new tastes (though confetti turned out to be a mistake), and excited about every little thing. These old wrappers, now permanently stored underneath my desk, are an icon of my elementary school days, and a reminder that trash can be treasure.

I have enough pens to cover a corner of my desk. No two are the same: Miffy, Snoopy, a squishy pig, and a wobbly bean sprout. They were the obsession of my middle school days, and gifts from old friendships. I treasured them so much, I ironically could never bring myself to use half of them. Still, they keep me company, dried ink and all, as I do my homework. The jar of expired candy tells the same story. Sour lemon candy from Tennessee, even walnut candy from China. I stash away the last piece of everything, “saving it for later” over and over again. It's my way of making sure nothing ever completely disappears. Like my unfilled sketchbooks and half-beaded bracelets, they’re a promise to my future self.

My collection of trinkets grows every year. A pyramid stack of emoting rubber ducks joined my mini figurines this summer, one freebie for each boba run I made through the humid streets of Chengdu. Newly bought Smiskis, mystery box parakeets, and crocheted plushies, and gifts from every holiday line up on my desk.

    I love adding to my room, but I hate cleaning it with a passion. So once a year, when my mom gets me to promise that I’ll purge my room, I usually flip through old Valentines or notes from teachers instead, taking my time with matching the handwriting to the faces in my second grade yearbook. I play with my rainbow slinky, a retired favorite I couldn’t part with, to justify keeping it. I do everything I can to preserve anything and everything, because throwing away the props from my memories feels like erasing chapters of my life. But each year, I let something else go. Old sketches get shoved further into the depths of storage boxes, pet rocks are bid farewell.

Sometimes even I forget what exactly I keep in my room, so “cleaning” turns into an unboxing time. Each lid opened is a show-and-tell from my past self. An honorable mention medal from a fishing event, iron bead butterflies, a Sirius Black figurine. My old hobbies, firsts, and lasts are preserved under my desk, waiting to be revisited.

    I hoard memories. Most of my little trinkets seem, quite frankly, useless. But a single glance at something has the power to take me back years in time. They transport me not to my milestones, but to little moments that remind me of things I’ve cherished or outgrown, and small experiences that shaped who I am today. Walking through my room is like a 4D recounting of my life. I keep everything: friendship, change, and memories upon memories in storage boxes under my desk, and my collection continues to grow.