nostalgia.

That blanket is not just a blanket; it's a family heirloom knit by your deceased Italian grandmother. That dress is not just a dress; it's the outfit you were wearing when you met your husband riding the green line after a concert. That novel? You were reading it the day you decided to give up med school and pursue acting. So, you see, you couldn't possible give it away.

Until you do. And you realize that the object in question was actually meaningless.

None of these scenarios happened to me, but you get the idea. We all have stuff that we hang on to, not because it's adding any value to our lives, but because of the value it represents. We ascribe so much sentiment to our belongings that they begin to take on a life of their own.

In my case, nostalgia came in the form of a large, vintage hatbox, filled with every handwritten love letter I've ever received. I've carried that box from apartment to apartment since 1996, which means it has moved with me no less than fourteen times in the past seventeen years. Fourteen times. And in all that time, I've opened the box...hmmm...maybe twice?

I'm not exactly sure why I was still holding on to it. Perhaps I was feeling sentimental for handwritten letters -- I mean, nobody writes them anymore, now that email exists. Perhaps I was feeling wistful for my golden youth, and the young men who scripted it with such passion and abandon. (Spoiler: 90% of them became lawyers, and one ended up in jail.) Perhaps I had some vague notion of repurposing the letters as fodder for a novel or short story someday.

Wherever my reticence came from, it was no match for my newfound love of minimalism. After seventeen years, it was time to say good-bye to the hatbox, and the hundreds of letters buried inside. Away they went; little paper ghosts headed for recycling. And as soon as they were gone, I knew I wouldn't miss them.

I know what you're thinking. Seriously, I'm not a heartless bitch. I just came to realize that the letters didn't hold any actual value. The real value -- a sum total of lessons learned and loves lost -- is so much a part of who I am today that I couldn't lose it if I tried. I'm deeply grateful to the young men who wrote those words, and the imprint they left on my life. I don't need a box of letters to remind me what they meant to me.

That's where nostalgia will trick you. It will make you think that you need that blanket to remember your grandmother, or that your husband will love you a little bit less if you consign that dress, or that giving away that novel would be akin to giving away your dreams. I promise you, it's all an illusion. You are a living, breathing, evolving tribute to every meaningful moment that has ever crossed your path and entered your heart.

You are more complete than you know.