I Meet People After They’ve Died

Part of my work as a senior move manager is stepping into a home after someone has died and doing what their loved ones can’t: sorting through decades of belongings. Every box, closet, drawer, and pocket. It’s heavy work, physically and emotionally — and it’s a profound privilege.

Families hire us because the task is too big, too painful, or too time-sensitive to handle alone. We lighten their load during grief, and in doing so, we get to know the person they loved. Intimately, and in the strangest way possible: through their stuff.

I’ve met lifelong sewists with meticulously labeled fabric stashes, writers who filled shelves with journals and scrapbooks, and creatives with UFO piles (that’s UnFinished Objects, for the uninitiated). I’ve packed up the homes of big personalities, quiet introverts, minimalists with museum-level order, maximalists who saved everything, veterans, activists, scientists, artists, and inventors.

Each home is part time capsule, part museum.

You can really get to know someone after they’ve died. Their values, quirks, humor, heartbreaks, passions — they all show up loud and clear.

This is what I mean when I talk about legacy.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: once you’re gone, someone has to go through your things. Strangers or family — either way, they’re guessing at what was important, what was private, and what was meant to be saved.

If you’d like some say in the matter, start now. Downsize. Swedish Death Clean. Label the important stuff. Tell the stories. Decide who gets what, or better yet, give it to them now. You get to control the narrative of how you’re remembered.

And for the love of God, put your most private items in a clearly labeled box that says, “DO NOT OPEN. Burn upon death or I’ll haunt you.”

Because if you don’t, someone will absolutely go through your bedside table — and whatever they find is on you!

Now, go grab a trash bag and a notebook, and start sorting your stuff. Because now is the perfect time.