Packing up a bedroom you’ve had since you were small is sad and useful. You find out which things still mean something.

Being made to sort everything is the only honest audit you ever get. Left alone, a room keeps everything, and you never find out which objects are load-bearing. Picking things up one at a time forces an answer on each, and the sadness is part of the information rather than a problem with it. Some of it means something; most of it turns out not to.

Use three piles and keep the first one small: a handful of things, not a box. Photograph a few of the rest instead of keeping them. What survives that is genuinely yours.