My name is Jo ... and I'm a former hoarder

My name is Jo, and I’m a former hoarder.

For me, hoarding came from a place of grief. We lost our baby boy at 18 weeks — a deeply traumatic experience, as all miscarriages are. He was the second baby we lost, and we would go on to lose one more before welcoming our youngest son.

At the time, I didn’t realise I was hoarding. I told myself I was just keeping things “in case we might need them one day”… right?

When we moved into our current home — a former HMO that we’ve restored back into a family house — life felt overwhelming. Looking back, taking on a big renovation while heavily pregnant, with two young daughters (aged 4 and 9), far away from family and friends, probably wasn’t the easiest path.

Then our son arrived early by emergency C-section, four weeks premature, and was diagnosed with Down’s Syndrome. He spent the first few weeks of his life in SCBU.

That’s when things escalated.

The garage filled with boxes from our old house that I couldn’t face going through. I wanted to keep everything for the boys. There was a constant voice in my head saying, “What if something bad happens? You’ll regret letting this go.”

Keeping things became a way of trying to keep my family safe.

It wasn’t just big items — it was memories too. I’ve kept every card my husband and children have ever given me. Because somewhere deep down was the fear: “What if something happens to them and this is all I have left?”

While training to be a counsellor, I shared with my class that I was a hoarder. That was a turning point. It was the moment I knew I needed to face it, with support from my counsellor and through CBT.

Now, I haven’t added to it — but I also haven’t taken much away.

The idea of sorting through everything still feels overwhelming. Part of me would love to throw it all into a skip and wave it goodbye… but I know that’s not really facing it. And realistically, there are important things mixed in amongst the boxes, drawers, and cupboards (you get the picture).

So, the de-hoarding (is that even a word?) begins.

It’s something I need to do myself, at my own pace.

And if you can’t find me… check the back of a cupboard. I’m probably upside down in a box — and may need rescuing.

Sometimes what looks like clutter is grief we haven't had the space to process