What I found in my parent's attic changed how I see the past

Love letters, Chinese erasers, and a new perspective on what we leave behind

With the LA fires raging, I’ve found myself reflecting on what truly matters—what I own, what I keep, and what I carry forward. When everything feels fragile, it forces you to think about what’s worth holding onto.

This reflection feels especially timely as we prepare to sell my family house—a home that holds 12 years of memories.

My parents have been tackling the overwhelming task of decluttering, one room at a time. First came the junk drawers, then the coat closet. They finished the laundry room, office, and guest room with ease. The game room was tricky, but only because it served as a catch-all space. However, the most daunting task of all was the attic.

Despite having moved multiple times, you’d think we’d already streamlined our belongings. And maybe we had. At some point, the attic was where everything we owned lived.

I opened boxes with old love letters from boys and dusted off old trophies. Mom found Dad’s old modeling photos and Dad found Mom’s old Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders calendars. Grandma’s beloved dolls and grandpa’s weathered briefcases were also in there. I found every tooth I’ve ever lost and every snow globe I’ve ever kept, now dry from time.

By 1 PM, I felt drained—not from the physical labor of lifting boxes, but from the emotional toll. Every object unlocked a flood of memories, both good and bittersweet. It’s exhausting to relive your life a thousand times over in a single day.

Just as I considered walking away, my mom posed a single question: “Should we save this for your future kids?”

Ah, kids.

I’m not sure if my kids will fawn over the Chinese erasers I adored in second grade. Or if they’ll appreciate my science books explaining why we sneeze, how rain forms, or what clouds are made of. My kids might not smile at the little dolls my grandma gave me, and they might not be captivated by the love letters from past boyfriends.

My kids will grow up in an even more digital world than I did, which is both fascinating and terrifying. I wonder if my analog keepsakes will carry any meaning in their pixelated reality.

As we sifted through the last of the boxes, I watched my parents carefully curate their own treasures to pass down to my sister and me. Love letters between them, middle school poems, and tiny mementos of their younger selves all found their way into neat piles.

And that’s when it hit me.

No matter how digital or advanced the world becomes, my kids will find value in the things I pass down—not because I tell them to, but because they’ll feel the love and thoughtfulness behind each choice. Just as I cherish the keepsakes of my parents, they’ll cherish mine.

So, yes, I’m keeping the Chinese erasers and the books about clouds and sneezing. Oh, and the love letters. They’ll probably get a kick out of those.