When I was a little girl, I used to think of spring as “Winter 2.0, but with less snow.” Being born and raised in the Midwest, you learn quickly that winter isn’t really over until at least the second week of April. The first week? That’s reserved for one last, unnecessarily aggressive snowstorm to remind you who’s in charge. But once that’s out of the way, spring officially begins—the season of flowers, rain, and change.

And just like winter turns me into a chronically depressed recluse, spring either makes me a watered-down version of my winter self or throws me into a full-blown manic episode where I decide to change everything about my life. Yesterday, while functioning on autopilot and convincing myself I am not doing nearly enough with my life, I realized I simply needed to do some spring cleaning.

When Spring Cleaning Means Purging—Not Just Dusting

When most people think of spring cleaning, they think of actual cleaning. They swap out their old winter rugs that carried them through months of cold, replace the cinnamon or bourbon-and-honey scented wall plug-ins with something floral or fruity, and open their windows to let in the sunshine.

Then, there are people like me.

For me, spring cleaning = purging. And Step 1 of 3 starts with my home.

Yesterday, I stood in my bedroom, staring at the mess of clothes scattered across the floor, my bed, and every available surface. I picked up each piece, trying to remember why I bought it, where I wore it, and if it ever truly made me happy. Some clothes were so worn out that I felt like a cartoon character wearing the same outfit on repeat. Others were only being kept because they were the last tangible remnants of a specific time in my life. And then there were pieces I didn’t even like but refused to get rid of because, if I did, I’d be left with barely anything.

I stood in my closet doorway, scanning the sea of black, brown, and the occasional patterned piece. When did I become allergic to color? I ran my fingers over the fabric, trying to feel something—nostalgia, excitement, a reason to keep them—but I felt nothing. If anything, I felt annoyed.

I wanted new colors. New textures. New energy.

I plopped down on the corner of my bed, staring at my closet, thinking, I should just throw all this sh!t away and start fresh. But then reality hit. Nobody is funding my spontaneous reinvention, and I don’t have $6,000 lying around for an entirely new wardrobe. So instead, I decided on a compromise: for every new thing I buy, I’ll donate or toss something old. In with the new, out with the old. Little by little, I’ll restore my love for my wardrobe instead of constantly trying to reinvent myself through it.

Then, as I looked around my room, I realized something else: I hate everything in here.

The white fur comforter? Fur was so 2017. I only wanted it back then because as a kid, we couldn’t afford luxury, and now that I have it, I’ve learned that fur gets hot, is high maintenance to clean, and is entirely impractical—especially when you have a black cat.

The pink rug under my closet? Hate it. Pink is so loud, and when it’s worn out, it turns into this weird grayish color that doesn’t match anything. I wanted a peaceful, cozy sanctuary, yet my room looked like a time capsule of everything 15-year-old me wanted—everything that 27-year-old me now despises.

Cleaning the Looks (Without Running Away From Myself)

During my therapy session, my therapist brought up how ten years ago, I was a high school senior and asked if I had accomplished everything 17-year-old me wanted. I just stared at her before bursting out laughing because 17-year-old me didn’t think I’d be alive at 27.

She clearly hadn’t read my file. Do therapists not get files? If she did, she’d know that I had planned to exit stage left long before my 21st birthday, so this whole “where do you see yourself in ten years” thing was never part of my plan.

When I finally stopped laughing, she hit me with a gut punch:

“So what keeps you here?”

And just like that, the knot in my throat formed. My eyes started to water. I sat on my hands, rocking back and forth, preparing to give her the answer she wanted to hear when she interrupted:

“And before you say what you think I want to hear, answer how you truly feel. If not for yourself, for 17-year-old you.”

And that was it. That was the shot to the heart.

I shot up, hands on my hips, and coldly told her, “You don’t get to ask me about her. You don’t even get to bring her up to me. She is gone. She has been dead for ten years. Let it go.”

But before I could sit back down, I completely lost it. I ranted about how I don’t know why I’m still here, how the only constant in my life has been my cat Jasper, and even he only loves me because I feed him.

And then, instead of comforting me, my therapist just started laughing.

Ma’am, what’s funny?

Before I could start Round 2 of my mental breakdown, she looked at me and said, “For somebody who is dead, she sure knows how to make her presence felt.”

And then she handed me an envelope.

Inside was a picture of me at 17, holding a snow globe that said New York City. I stared at the girl in the picture—the same wild curls, the same two-toned hair, the same forced-yet-genuine smile.

I had spent years running from this version of myself. Trying to erase her, reinvent her, be anything but her. Yet, there she was, staring back at me.

And yesterday, when I sat on my bed, feeling like I needed to reinvent my look again, I realized this would be the first spring I didn’t do something drastic. No new hair color, no impulsive haircuts, no fresh tan shade.

Because for once, I don’t need to change. I just need to restore.

Cleaning the Friendships (The Ones That Matter, Anyway)

As I held up a black dress I’ve had since I was 18, I thought about how disconnected I had become from myself. The past few years were brutal—losing family, cutting off toxic friendships, navigating life in the busiest and most expensive city with nobody to lean on.

But if I’ve cleaned nothing else, I’ve cleaned the hell out of my relationships.

And yet, despite all the people I’ve had to let go, some have survived every single spring cleaning.

Cierra, who has been through everything with me—laughs, fights, and all. Cassie, who was my childhood best friend and, after four years of no contact, we picked up right where we left off. Lupita, my newest friend, who has shown me more love than some family members ever have. Kendra, Troi, and so many others who continue to show up and remind me that I am never alone.

And if I could go back to therapy and answer that question again, I’d say:

It’s them.

Despite all the heartbreak, disappointment, and chaos, the love I receive from these people outweighs everything that life throws at me.

Sometimes, Cleaning Isn’t About Removing—It’s About Restoring

So now, my room is a mess. Clothes are everywhere. My mascara is smudged from laughing and crying. But here I am, living in New York City.

At 17, I was hoping to make it here one day. At 27, I did.

And the best part? I survived every storm along the way.