Thirft Store Therapy

Mother Wounds and Thrift Store Finds

It was one of the traits that drove me insane—objects, from small piles of mail and loose receipts to microwaves and desks, were constantly moved and shuffled around. My adult, therapized self now understands why my mom’s tendency to rearrange and "organize," as she called it, sent me into a spiral. It was just another symptom of her unpredictability. She wasn’t a hoarder by any means, but functionality and the energetic flow of a space were not her strong suits. After I moved out, she often told me how much she envied my space. Things were where they made sense and had a sense of cohesion. I had developed this sense of order, like many of my strengths, in opposition (and a little defiance) to her tendencies. I endlessly mocked and rolled my eyes at her Savers thrift store trips. The thought of mingling with dead people’s things, caked in dust, utterly skeeved me out.

Then my parents died, and suddenly I found myself the owner of an entire house full of dead people's stuff. As I cleaned out the space, the irony wasn’t lost on me. I loaded furniture with Savers tags still intact into the back of her black Jeep Wrangler and drove them back to where they came from.

A rare picture from that chaotic few months of my life with a very worn out dog.

When I moved back into the house, I was faced with two challenges: reclaiming my childhood home and making it my own, and doing so on a budget (because, obviously, when you lose both parents within eight months of each other, you quit your career, drain your savings, and pursue entrepreneurship). Suddenly, the stores full of dead people’s things didn’t seem so terrifying. In fact, they started to have some appeal.
Like any woman with a nice, deep mother wound, the thoughts and anxieties that accompanied my newfound interest came in loud and clear:

This is a habit rooted in scarcity. You want to break that cycle.
It’s the house. It’s cursed. Mom was always rearranging things, trying to figure out the right combination to make it work, and now you are too. See? You ARE her.

The cabinet I kept. It was my nana’s, but I haven’t found the right spot for it yet.

I’ll never fully know my mom’s motivations for roaming the aisles of Savers because, when she was alive, I was too filled with anger and annoyance to ever get curious. But I do know why I’m finding so much joy in becoming a thrift girlie. I want my space to have character. I want to actively stoke my curiosity and creativity. I want to lean into sustainability and minimize my overconsumption. I want my little ADHD brain to get responsible hits of dopamine without decimating my bank account. I love seeing the objects I desire manifest a few months later—it teaches me patience. I like connecting with people—like Dan, my local antiques dealer, who is not only full of stories but has been helping me hunt down a quality 1950s-60s typewriter for months (hopefully, it will arrive soon as a late birthday gift to myself—who wants hand-typed letters?). I like looking at objects and wondering what their stories are, and occasionally bringing a lucky few home to keep them alive and add to them, in the same way I hope someone has done with my parents' belongings.

This is one of my favorite finds. I am a sucker for old children’s furniture. This is an old 1800’s desk that is now the little altar in my bedroom.

It breaks my heart that it wasn’t until my mom was actively dying that I began to see her as a human, and it wasn’t until after her death that I became curious about who she was. So, while I may never truly know if the motives behind our shared behavior are the same, I do know she’s probably enjoying watching me load Aunt Gertrude’s sewing table into the back of her Jeep and drive it home.