The Creative Weight of Things
For much of my creative life, I’ve kept objects around me that spark inspiration. Books, mementos, old notebooks filled with half-baked ideas, physical reminders of my work, and the paths I’ve traveled. Like many artists and storytellers, I’ve often felt a deep connection to these artifacts, as if they held some creative energy I could tap into when needed. But lately, I’ve been questioning whether they’re serving me or silently weighing me down.
As I prepare to move house, I’ve been decluttering, and the process has revealed something unexpected: relief. Every time I load up my car with donations, I can still feel the weight of the objects lingering until they are completely out of my life. Only then do I notice a subtle but undeniable shift in my mental space. But one of the biggest realizations I’ve had while decluttering is this: nobody wants your stuff. No one cares about the things you’ve accumulated, no matter how sentimental or valuable they once were.
That’s been both humbling and freeing. At first, it’s a little unsettling to realize that the objects you hold onto, thinking they have meaning, don’t matter to anyone else. But once you accept that, it becomes easier to let go. You stop seeing these things as essential and start recognizing them for what they often are, leftovers from past chapters that no longer serve your present or future.
One of the biggest surprises in this process has been my decision to put my awards and trophies into storage. A friend of mine was shocked when I told him, but it makes perfect sense to me. My career has been filled with incredible moments, but those physical reminders don’t serve me right now. If anything, they are distractions, symbols of past success when my focus needs to be on what comes next.
I’ve noticed that many of the most successful people I know, people with Emmys, Oscars, and Grammys, don’t display their awards. Some keep them boxed away. Others don’t even know where they are. I think it’s because trophies can become a kind of shrine to the past, and if you’re not careful, they can subtly pull you backward instead of pushing you forward.
I saw this dynamic play out in my father’s life. He was a brilliant motorsport photographer who spent much of his later years revisiting and organizing his old work. While there’s nothing wrong with cherishing the past, I often wondered if this kept him from exploring new creative possibilities. Looking back too much can become a form of inertia.
And this isn’t just true on a personal level. I’ve been thinking about how this same idea plays out in Hollywood, where new studio and network executives routinely come in and scrap all the pre-existing projects. At first glance, it seems like ego, new leadership wanting to erase the past and build their legacy. And while that’s often part of it, I think it’s also about being unburdened. Keeping old projects alive means maintaining someone else’s vision, dealing with someone else’s expensive decisions, and carrying the weight of unfinished work. The financial and emotional tax is often too high. A clean slate allows them to fully focus on the future.
It’s similar to what I’m going through. Letting go of things that once had meaning but no longer serve me, shedding the weight of past obligations to create space for what’s next. While it might seem ruthless, it’s also practical. Clinging to old projects, whether in a studio setting or your own life, can be a creative anchor, keeping you tethered to decisions made at different times for a different purpose.
My creative focus requires deep work, and deep work requires fewer distractions. The act of decluttering, of physically removing the past from my immediate space, has unexpectedly become a source of inspiration. With every object I let go of, I feel lighter, more open to possibility.
I’m not saying I’ll never revisit these things. Maybe one day I’ll pull those trophies out and feel differently. Whenever I look at them, I’m not reminded of accolades but great friends and the experiences we shared. But for now, they belong in storage. Because the work that matters most isn’t in my rearview mirror, it’s in the open road ahead.
