I have a tricky relationship with New Years. Last January, I wrote about how much I love resolutions, but 2018 felt like a year to skip them. A year to remind myself that I was good enough, already, the way that I was. 

And that was important. That was exactly what I needed. 

But this year, I wanted a little more. 

It's a fine line to walk, I think—that line between wanting to be better and wanting to be enough. And I wanted to find something that could make my life better, without signaling to my brain that I'm inadequate.

Enter Marie Kondo.

I read her book on Christmas, watched the Netlix show on New Years, and was determined to give it a go this month.

Josh didn't need much convincing. It's pretty much been his dream since we started dating that one day I'd wake up and say, hey, let's clean!

So we decided to do it and felt pretty good about ourselves. Good in that naive, sparkly way of people who have seen something on TV and thought, this looks easy!

We pulled everything we owned out of its place and piled it on the floor, until it looked like all of our closets had had collective food poisoning and barfed stuff all over the living room—and we began to feel a little apprehensive. Perhaps, maybe, not so easy? 

But we were still excited to hold each object in our hands and see if it sparked joy, etc. 

I gently reminded Josh (read: not so gently, more like, You're doing it wrong!!) to thank each item, because part of the KonMari method is thanking every item you discard for being part of your life.

It felt a little silly, but I'm a rule-follower, and I already talk to inanimate objects as if they’re people, so this wasn't a huge leap for me.

As we worked, I didn't expect to learn anything. Decluttering felt like a home improvement project, rather than a self improvement project. I was less interested in bettering myself, and more focused on bettering my folding skills. 

(It's a work in progress... my folded clothing still looks like misshapen dim sum).

I figured that dramatic life lessons were reserved for people on television, who were acting up their revelations for TV-purposes.

What we were doing was pure house work, nothing more. 

Until, of course, I was surrounded by Spike's old chew toys and my late grandmother's vintage boots, sobbing because I couldn't possibly get rid of them but I also didn't want to keep them.

Josh reminded me, gently (truly gently, because it's Josh), to thank them.

And then none of it felt silly anymore.

I thanked these items for giving joy to people I had loved, and for reminding me of them, and for teaching me how to let go.

And I felt (of course) a life lesson begin to form. Forgive me for going all Netflix-feel-good on you, but I'm prone to dramatic revelations, and anyway, I challenge you to Marie Kondo without emotion. That woman's method really is magic.

And I think the magic comes in the thank you. Because you say thank you to everything. Sometimes it's easy; sometimes, you're thanking your favorite pair of shoes, which need to go because they're falling apart, but they gave you three good years of use. Good, yes, thanks for taking me places, dear shoes.

Sometimes it's harder. Like when you're saying goodbye to something sentimental. Or when you're discarding an object you never used, or regret buying, or sparks pain. You have to thank that, too. All of it. Because everything in your life can teach you something, if you're willing to pay attention.

And the thank you—maybe that's the key to resolutions, too.

Maybe that's the missing link between being better and being enough.

In the past, resolutions have felt messy to me because they seem to focus on the negative. They highlight the things I dislike about myself, the parts I want to erase.

But maybe it's necessary, in the act of change, to thank those parts of myself.

To express gratitude for the person who I was, because I got myself where I am today. Even the negative things showed me what to work on—a path to a happier life.

So, thank you, Marie Kondo. And thank you to my things. And thank you to the person I was.

I'm making space in my home, and space in my heart—for who I am now, and who I am yet to be.