It is officially late Autumn in New England. Leaves litter the ground and rain fills all the dips in the pavement and ruins my plans for the day. I had planned to continue my clean-out of the garage, but the dampness makes the work incredibly unappealing. Instead, I made the decision to start cleaning things out of my room- mainly my armoire. That was a mistake.

Only a few of the books I've collected over the years...

I hadn’t yet realized how much of my life I have yet to come to terms with. The day after my birthday, at the end of last month, I received my results from my MA in archaeology. To say that I was disappointed that my dissertation ruined my average and didn’t earn me a distinction is an understatement–I was distraught. Luckily I was in London with friends and they took me out for drinks. But one night of champagne cocktails did not undo my disenchantment with the world of academia. Any thoughts of applying for a PhD program vanished and instead I look to be gainfully employed. So today, in my mess of a room with past dreams pushed to the rubbish bin, I have to come face-to-face with my pack-rat nature. My room is filled from top-to-bottom with books from my undergraduate days. Anything that I thought might be useful I held onto, making my move back home after I graduate exhausting. With the boxes I sorted in the garage yesterday, I began sorting and putting away my books. And then the tears began and I wondered why old archaeology text books would make someone cry…

And then it hit me.  Cleaning out your old life, to someone with goals they never achieved, feels like admitting to failure. Everything that sits in my room feels like a testament to everything I never did. I know it’s a silly thing to say, as I’m only 24 and still have plenty of time to do so much, but there are so many things I’ve done that didn’t do how I should have. I was never top of my class like I had wanted, and that was always because I was too lazy to work harder. I have books only half-read that I finally have to admit I will never read. By the time I might actually get around to it, in a subject like archaeology, they will be old news.

Every book that I box up is screaming at me “you’re not good enough.”

And I think that’s why so many people have problems throwing things out. We keep things not only because we say we might do something with them, but because, to us, they grow to symbolize plans and ambitions we don’t want to give up.

And there’s the funny thing about plans. As good ol’ Robbie Burns said, “The best laid plans…”. Time doesn’t wait for us to get our acts together. Time continues and we must all accept that with the movement of time we must move and change as well. I’m not a failure because I’m not pursuing archaeology as a career or because I’m finally selling all these books. I’m actually doing well because I’m moving on. I’m accepting that what I want can change over time. I didn’t become a marine biologist just because I said that’s what I wanted to be when I was 8, now did I? I’ve never even considered that I might be a failure because I didn’t follow through with the wishes of my 8-year-old self.

So I will sell these books, be it online or in the garage sale, and not look back with tears in my eyes. After all, they’re books. If I find that I want to use them again, I can always join a library.

So, um, anyone want Donald Kagan’s series on the Peloponnesian War or books the Dead Sea Scrolls and the site of Qumran? No, seriously…. I’ve got like 100 books to get rid of now.