There’s something no one prepares you for after losing someone: the moment you walk into the space they left behind and everything is still there—untouched, suspended in time. The clothes hanging where they always hung. The scent of their perfume still faint in the room. Their books, their notes, the way the blanket is folded just how they liked it.
When my mom passed away, I couldn’t return to Argentina right away. Life, grief, and the distance made it impossible. It took me a year and a half to walk into her apartment again. And when I finally did, everything was exactly as it had been the day she died.
It’s a strange feeling—to stand in the middle of a space filled with someone you love, knowing they’re no longer here. It almost felt like time had paused for her, like she might return at any moment. But of course, she wouldn’t. And that realization was deeply, profoundly humbling.
Where to Begin, When Everything Holds a Story
What do you do with a life left behind in objects? With the clothes she wore, the notes she left tucked in drawers, the mugs she drank from every morning? There’s no manual for this part of grief.
Some people need to go through everything right away. Others need time—months, even years. There is no right or wrong. For me, it took time. A lot of it. And when I was finally ready, I knew I didn’t want to rush through it.
Going through her things wasn’t just about deciding what to keep or give away. It was about being present with her absence. About pausing, holding a sweater to my face, finding a photo I hadn’t seen in years. It was about remembering, crying, smiling, feeling her in the smallest details.
Giving Meaning to What Remains
My brothers and I wanted her belongings to go somewhere where they could continue to have meaning—where they could bring warmth, usefulness, comfort. We donated much of her clothing, especially the coats and warm pieces, to people in need through the “Noche de la Caridad,” an initiative in Buenos Aires that supports people living on the streets.
We gave away many of her household items to families who could use them. There was something deeply comforting in the idea that the things she once touched could now serve someone else’s life.
Personally, I brought back very few things with me. I’m not very attached to material objects, and I’ve never felt that I need things to hold on to love. What I did keep were items that carry emotional weight: photos, a few notes in her handwriting, a book or two. And honestly, that’s enough. Because what I carry now is everything we lived. Her love is not in the objects—it’s in me.
When You're Ready, This Might Help
If you're facing this step in your own grieving journey, I want to gently remind you: there’s no timeline. You don’t have to do it all at once. You don’t have to be ready when others think you should be. And you absolutely don’t have to justify the emotions that come up when you open a drawer or smell their perfume.
Here are a few thoughts that helped me when the time came:
🌿 Let your heart guide you. Keep what speaks to you—what brings comfort, what holds meaning. It doesn’t have to be a lot. Sometimes a single object carries the entire story.
🌿 Give with intention. Donating or passing on belongings can be a way of spreading your loved one’s legacy. Their warmth, their generosity, their essence—offered to someone who might need it now.
🌿 Create a moment. Light a candle. Play their favorite song. Sit with the items before you begin. Let it be a small ritual, a pause to honor them.
🌿 You don’t have to finish. You can walk away and come back. You can keep something for now and decide later. The process unfolds over time.
It's Never Just About the Things
Our loved ones live on in the stories we tell, in the way we carry their values, in how we show up in the world. The things they left behind are just one part of that.
For me, walking into my mom’s apartment that day wasn’t about cleaning or organizing. It was about reconnecting. About acknowledging her absence while feeling, so clearly, her presence.
If you’re going through something similar, I hope you give yourself the same tenderness and time. I hope you find meaning in the smallest things. And I hope you feel, even through the ache, that they are still with you—in memory, in love, in every corner of who you are.
With love and presence,
Virginia