The Clutter We Carry: How Stress Creates Mental Clutter and False Narratives

Yes, I’m still moving!

But because life rarely goes as planned, I’m moving not just once—but twice.

This is a story about stress. 

About the stories stress leads us to create. 

And the power of slowing down as a way to come back to truth.

We officially sold our house in April—a cosmic-induced miracle. It sold as-is, well over asking, and we negotiated two months of free rent-back. At that point, two months felt like more than enough time to find a rental in the Columbia Gorge. Little did we know, the rental market there is incredibly competitive.

So when we found ourselves first in line for a house in Mosier, we jumped on it. While the house checked just about every box for us, it wasn’t available until July 1. That wasn’t exactly the setup I had spent months trying to manifest, but we loved the home and desperately wanted to be done with our rental search, so we surrendered to a new timeline and got to work finding a short term rental to bridge our housing gap.

We booked three different properties before finding one that felt right. The first, in White Salmon, had a cancellation policy that felt too strict. The second, just down the road from our current home, was pet friendly and priced right. But it was a designer-curated space, and I had serious reservations about living there with my cat and dog. At the same time, it was only two weeks, so I decided to let it go.

But in the weeks to follow, my anxiety simmered beneath the surface. It drained my energy, disrupted my rhythms, and weighed me down. Recognizing that our bodies communicate in emotions, I decided to jump on Airbnb and read the reviews, hoping to find some reassurance. Instead I read multiple reviews about the steep staircase—not ideal for our aging pup. I took it as a sign and went back to the search once again.

That night, I found the perfect spot. It immediately felt right. I booked it and exhaled, feeling grateful the other options hadn’t worked out.

A few days later, I got an email from Airbnb about a payment issue. I checked my Airbnb and bank accounts—they looked fine—so I went on with my life.

Until a week later, another email arrived: my reservation had been canceled.

Cue all the big feelings and choice words.

I called Airbnb multiple times. They were kind, but no one could explain what had happened. They reassured me it wouldn’t happen again, but without any real understanding of what had gone wrong, I didn't exactly feel reassured. And yet, this felt like the right place for us. So I took a gamble on Airbnb’s word and I rebooked.

The next day, I got another email about an error with billing. You’ve got to be kidding me.

Within seconds, my brain filled in the blanks: This was going to be a mess. I’d be on the phone for hours. I’d have to find a new rental at the eleventh hour, likely at double the cost. My jaw tensed. My stomach churned. I wanted this to be over.

I drafted a message to the host explaining the issue and asked how he’d like me to proceed. Then I tried to move on.

But the truth? I didn’t actually move on. I carried that uncertainty with me everywhere. The story I told myself cluttered my mind, pulled at my energy, and dimmed my presence. 

Meanwhile, my partner was convinced everything was fine. 

10% of me appreciated his position.

90% of me wanted to shout.

It’s easy to believe everything’s fine when you’re not the one dealing with it.

But… he was right.

That Saturday, I sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, a pen, and a notepad. I took a couple deep breaths and opened my inbox. I jotted down the details of my reservations—dates, confirmation numbers, what I’d been charged. Within minutes, I realized my husband was right: nothing was wrong. My current reservation was completely and totally fine. 

So what happened? Surely I didn’t spend the whole week tense, anxious and irritable for no reaI reason? I did.

Why? Because my mind made up a story based on past experiences—and I unconsciously chose to believe it.

Ooof. I felt relief—and then embarrassment. But more than that, I felt clarity. I saw the story I had written without realizing it, and I recognized that I was not alone.

My experience is not unique. It’s deeply human. It’s an example of story-driven clutter—the invisible narratives we carry that drain our energy, block our presence, and pull us from the truth. Clutter we don’t have to live with, if we can learn to tell a different story.

So what actually happened?

Yes, I got an email about a billing error after I rebooked the reservation. It came through on my Apple Watch. It looked familiar, and in a split-second, my brain filled in the blanks: Here we go again.

But when I finally slowed down to read the details—confirmation numbers, charges—I realized it wasn’t about the new booking. It was about the old one Airbnb had canceled. My rebooking was completely and totally fine.

And the message I thought I’d sent the host? It wasn’t there. Our last exchange was simply him saying to reach out if I had trouble. Evidently, I never hit send—or maybe I dreamed writing the whole thing. Who knows. At that point, it didn’t matter. I was simply grateful. Grateful for the reminder to slow down. To read things carefully. To question the story I was telling myself. To return to what was actually true.

Modern life demands more of us than we were ever meant to carry. And while we can’t always control what life hands us, we can choose how we respond. But choosing our story requires slowing down. It asks us to be more present, more conscious, more intentional.

When we write stories from fear or past pain, they pile up. Layer by layer, they become a kind of clutter—blocking access to our clarity, creativity, and calm. They disconnect us from the present moment—and from ourselves.

That week, I lost sleep. I didn’t eat well. I wasn’t my best self. I spun inside a story that wasn’t true—and it cost me peace and clarity. Because in stress, we default to survival mode. Fight or flight. We lose access to our intuition and inner steadiness.

But on that Saturday morning, when I finally slowed down—just a few deep breaths, a pen and paper—I returned to all of it. Clarity. Calm. Perspective. And the knowing that if I’d paused just a little earlier, I could have saved myself days of suffering.

That’s the power of slowing down. The magic of conscious living. Stress pulls us out of our power. Slowness returns us to it.

Even when it feels like the last thing we can do, it’s often exactly what we need.

I want to be honest: slowing down won’t always solve the problem. But it will shift your state. It will bring you back to yourself—your wisdom, your steadiness, your truth.

Because when we create space—internally and externally—we reconnect with what’s real. We remember: clarity lives in stillness. Peace lives in presence. And our power lies in a pause.

My hope is that somewhere in the rawness of this story, you felt something settle. A softening. A reminder that you're not alone—and that there’s another way.

A way of living that doesn’t rush to fill in the blanks, but instead pauses to breathe.That chooses presence over panic, clarity over assumption.That gently rewrites the old stories we’ve unknowingly carried for far too long.

If any part of this offered a shift in perspective, let it be this: You can live differently.You can slow down.You can steady yourself in your own power.You can learn to trust in stillness, in breath, in the moment before the spiral.

And if that feels like too much to navigate alone, I’m here.

Here to walk alongside you,

To help untangle the clutter—both visible and invisible—

To guide you back to your deeper truth:

The one that never left, but may have gotten buried beneath the noise.

With love and light,