What Comes With Me?

I am still surrounded by boxes.

There is plenty on my to-do list. Things to unpack. Things to organize. Things I have absolutely no idea where to put.

So naturally, I made a dinosaur terrarium.

Yep! Let me explain.

This summer, we're making a big life shift - moving our primary home to Bloomington, Indiana, while I'm keeping a small apartment in Charleston to stay close to family and my work here. Which means our belongings aren't just being packed. They're being sorted between two very different lives and spaces.

For weeks, I touched what felt like every accumulated thing in my life and made a decision:

Keep. Give away. Throw away. Pack.

Some decisions were easy. Others weren't.

And eventually, decision fatigue took over and there was a fifth category:

I don't know. Throw it in a box and let ‘Future Nina’ deal with it.

Well, ‘Future Nina’ is here. And as I unpack, I have some questions for Past Nina.

Why did I keep this?

What exactly did I think I was going to do with that?

Why did this make the cut?

I'm beginning to question how my brain works. Which brings me back to the dinosaur.

This week, still surrounded by boxes and with plenty left on my to-do list, I poured a glass of wine and sat down. Somehow, instead of unpacking another box, I found an old dinosaur toy, a half-dead plant, a glass jar thingy, some old aquarium rocks and a bag of dirt. (yes - I moved a bag of dirt)

So… I made a terrarium.

I have absolutely no idea why my brain decided this was more important than unpacking another box.

But I love it. It makes me smile every time I walk past it. And maybe that's the point.

Not everything that comes with us into the next chapter has to justify its place. Some things get to come simply because they make us happy.

I've been thinking about that a lot as I've unpacked. We do this with more than our stuff. We carry old definitions of ourselves.

Expectations. Relationships. Habits. Grudges. Goals we're not even sure we want anymore. Stories about who we are and who we're supposed to be.

Some of those things are absolutely worth carrying. They're part of us. They have meaning. They still belong in the life we're building. But some things stay in our metaphorical boxes for the same reason these random things ended up in my actual ones:

We've just been carrying them for a long time.

Somewhere along the way it became clear that this wasn't just packing. It was editing.

Change has a way of giving us that opportunity. A move can do it. So can a new job. A divorce. An empty nest. A loss. A promotion. A milestone birthday. A big opportunity. A big disappointment.

Any significant THIS can make us look at the life we've accumulated and ask:

Does this still come with me?

There's something freeing about realizing the answer doesn't always have to be yes.

-You don't have to pack everything for the next version of your life.

-You can leave behind an expectation that no longer fits.

-You can change your mind about a goal.

-You can retire an old definition of success.

-You can stop carrying a story about yourself that hasn't been true for years.

-You can put some things down.

But I'm learning there's another side to this, too. You can choose to bring some odd things that don't make any sense to anyone else.

The ridiculous dinosaur.

The chipped bowl.

The weird tradition.

The friendship nobody else quite understands.

The dream that isn't particularly practical.

The part of yourself that doesn't fit neatly into the person everyone expects you to be.

Not everything you carry forward has to be useful, impressive, productive… or easily explained. Some things can come simply because you love them.

Maybe that's what I'm doing in this strange little season of boxes and beginnings. I'm not trying to reinvent myself completely. I'm editing. I'm paying attention. I’m keeping some things. I’m letting some things go. I’m rediscovering some things I'd forgotten.

And now, apparently, turning a half-dead plant and a plastic dinosaur into a tiny prehistoric ecosystem instead of unpacking my kitchen.

And you know what? I am not mad about it. I'm keeping it!

Maybe the invitation in a new chapter isn't to become someone entirely new.

Maybe it's simply to become more intentional about what comes with you.

Choose what you carry.

Keep what still matters.

Put down what doesn't.

And leave a little room for the things that make absolutely no sense except that they make you smile.

Because maybe curating a life you love isn't about deciding what should belong.

It's about noticing what already does.