The Space in My Brain Could Use Some Decluttering

If I’m being honest, the space in my brain is where I can reduce the most clutter in my life—not my garage, not my desk, and not even that mysterious kitchen drawer where tape, batteries, and rubber bands go to live forever. It’s the half-finished moments. The in-between spaces. The things I start with great enthusiasm and then abandon mid-thought like a dog spotting a squirrel.

My life sometimes feels like a swirl of invisible sticky notes floating around my head. Not actual sticky notes—although I wouldn’t be shocked to find one stuck to the cat or tucked inside the refrigerator next to the mustard—but mental ones. Open loops. Lids left off. Cabinets not quite closed. Projects paused because something else shinier drifted by. I can walk away from a room having done five things and finished none of them. If there were an Olympic event for “almost putting things away,” I’d be standing on the podium right now, smiling proudly with my gold medal… while the medal case itself remains open and sitting on the counter.

I genuinely do see myself as productive and creative, because I am. My brain doesn’t idle well. It’s always spinning, connecting dots, inventing, planning, noticing things most people walk right past. That constant motion is a gift, but it’s also where a lot of my clutter lives. Being a little on the ADHD spectrum means I can be deeply focused on something meaningful, totally in the zone, when a completely unrelated thought barges in uninvited. One minute I’m writing or fixing something, the next I’m halfway to the garage wondering if the boat battery needs charging, or why I haven’t rotated the tires on the car in a while. The original task is still there, just paused mid-sentence, waiting patiently like a loyal dog wondering why I walked away mid-throw.

The same thing happens in everyday life. I’ll be cooking, fully convinced I’m creating a masterpiece, when I suddenly realize every cabinet door in the kitchen is open like it’s trying to air itself out. Measuring spoons are scattered across the counter as if they attempted a daring escape. I’ve put the milk away and somehow left the refrigerator door cracked just enough to keep things interesting. Toothpaste caps vanish. Socks migrate. Keys disappear so often that I briefly consider installing a lost-and-found box in my own house.

What’s funny is that this kind of disorder doesn’t usually slow me down in the ways you’d expect. I can walk into a flea market that looks like chaos piled on chaos and instantly spot the one rare piece hiding in plain sight. I can design a store layout, write a blog post, or solve a complicated problem while juggling a dozen thoughts at once. My brain thrives in creative noise. The trouble starts when that noise follows me everywhere, even into places where simplicity would actually make life easier—like the bathroom, where the toothpaste really only belongs in one place.

There are times when I’ll lose hours doing something I love and not even notice I skipped a meal or an entire conversation. Other times, I’ll sit in a room that would stress most people out and feel perfectly at home because, somehow, it all makes sense to me. Conversations can wander wildly because my mind loves interesting detours, and my sense of time can stretch or collapse depending on what has my attention. None of that feels like clutter in the moment—it feels like momentum. It’s only later that I realize I never put the screwdriver back, the cabinet is still open, and the coffee I reheated twice is now cold again.

But clutter always shows up eventually. It shows up in small frustrations. In the extra minute spent looking for something that should be right where I left it. In the mild irritation of an open door or a jar with no lid. In the realization that a little more follow-through would save a lot of unnecessary friction—and possibly a comment from my spouse gently pointing out that “the cabinet doors don’t close themselves.”

So when I think about where I can reduce clutter in my life, I don’t picture color-coded bins or perfectly labeled shelves. I picture closing the loop. Finishing the small things. Slowing down just enough to put the lid back on, shut the cabinet, return the tool, or place my keys where future-me will actually thank past-me for once instead of muttering under his breath.

I don’t want to lose the creativity, the curiosity, or the way my mind makes unexpected connections. That’s the good stuff. That’s what keeps life interesting. I just want to trim the excess noise around it, so the chaos doesn’t scream when it could sing.

And if I fall short? At least I’ll probably end up with another good story—possibly involving rebellious measuring spoons, an open cupboard, and a brilliant idea that absolutely could not wait.

If any of this sounds familiar, you’re not alone. And if you enjoy these little reflections on life, family, and the strange ways our brains work, I’d love to have you along for the next one.