There’s a pile of old wood in my garden I’ve been holding onto—leftovers from past projects. Pieces that were once useful, maybe even meaningful in their own way. Some of it is still usable, if I wanted to make do.

But I don’t build that way anymore.

When I build now, I build with intention. I build for the long term. I choose quality materials that reflect where I am in life—not scraps from a version of me that had to make do because there wasn’t another option.

Keeping that wood was never really about practicality. It was about fear.

Fear that I might run out of money. That I’d need to cobble something together again. That I’d go backwards. But the truth is, if I ever hit a point where I have to use those scraps to survive, I probably won’t be living in this house at all. And if I am, I’ll cross that bridge then.

I don’t need to prepare for a life I no longer plan to live.

This decision isn’t about wood. It’s about self-respect. It’s about clearing space not just in the garden, but in the psyche. Letting go of the clutter—the contingency plans that speak more to scarcity than to trust.

I trust myself now.

I trust I’ll have what I need when the time comes. And I trust that letting go of the old makes room for something better—not just visually, but emotionally. I want my environment to reflect the version of me who builds well. Who values the process. Who doesn’t cling to “just in case.”

So I’m throwing it out. Not in frustration, not in fear. Just with quiet clarity.

That wood did its job.
Now it’s time to let it go.