08/30/2026
Yesterday, I went to an appointment at a home that was more than 125 years old. The gentleman living there had to move because the plumbing had deteriorated to the point where repairing one problem could easily cause another.
As we walked through the house, you could see generations of a family everywhere. His grandmother’s things. His mother’s things. His own things. Vintage mixed with new.
Then we walked into a room with what seemed like at least 100 pairs of men’s shoes, many of them new.
He told me he was selling most of his clothing because it no longer fit, but the shoes were coming with him.
I asked, “Where are you going to put all of these shoes in a two-bedroom condo?”
He told me he rented a large storage unit.
So I asked, “Why pay to store shoes you may never wear?”
He sat down and said something I won’t forget.
“I have no family. No parents. No siblings. I have nobody. I only have me. If I sell everything, what do I have? Only what fits in my apartment. Then I really feel like I have nothing.”
I sat there quietly.
And suddenly, it all made sense.
This definitely wasn’t my first rodeo. I’ve walked through homes packed from floor to ceiling and met people who couldn’t part with anything. But for some reason, I felt like I needed to ask him why.
I’m glad I did.
By the time I was getting ready to leave, I could tell he didn’t really want me to go. He kept talking and sharing.
Maybe what he needed in that moment wasn’t someone to price his belongings.
Maybe he just needed someone to listen.
That conversation reminded me that what looks like clutter to one person may represent memories, security, companionship, or simply the comfort of having something left to call their own.
Sometimes this business has very little to do with what something is worth.
Sometimes the most valuable thing we can give someone is our time, our patience, and the feeling that they’ve been heard.
