The Weight of Holding Memories

Last fall, Dario posed for a picture in the very same spot where his mom and brother (both now deceased) had stood more than 60 years ago. It was such a special moment to think that his Mom and brother had stood in the same place we pass regularly in Lucca.

Dario and I are the keepers of our family’s memories—or at least many of the physical reminders—bins upon bins of photo albums from both sides of our families, along with a few mystery relics from Dario’s maternal uncle in La Spezia, filled with unfamiliar faces staring out from deteriorated pages. These albums hold fragments of stories we may never fully piece together, yet they remain a tangible link to our past. But one of our most surprising discoveries came after we bought our place in Lucca. While we knew Dario’s family had ties to the region—Viareggio, Pescia, and Montecatini—we hadn’t realized there was any Lucca history. It wasn’t until the producers of our House Hunters International episode asked if we had any family photos from Lucca that we looked at some of the albums more closely and stumbled upon several taken over the years throughout our town.

One of the reasons we chose to do House Hunters International was to memorialize that time in our lives—to have a snapshot of our journey, even if our story was slightly edited for entertainment value. While the episode depicted us as effortlessly making the full-time leap to living in Italy, the reality is that we're still straddling both worlds. The transition hasn't been as seamless as it appeared on TV. We split our time between Virginia and Tuscany, balancing family life, work commitments, and the practicalities of maintaining two homes. The truth is, while we love our life in Lucca, there's also a pull to stay connected to our community in Virginia.

Last year, we met with a realtor to weigh our options, curious if it was time to downsize to something smaller nearby in Virginia. With our unbeatable mortgage rate, her advice was clear: stay put, but start the purge. The first part was easy—clearing out junk, donating what we no longer use, and scheduling monthly donation pickups for most of 2024 to keep the momentum going. But the next phase will be harder—facing the things tied to memories, sentiment, and a sense of obligation. Those are the pieces that linger, not because we necessarily need them, but because they hold a part of our past.

At some point, we know we’ll downsize our home in Northern Virginia. But with nine 64-quart bins packed with albums, the thought of letting go feels overwhelming. These albums aren’t just paper and ink; they hold our history, our milestones, our past. And yet, I understand now why flea markets are filled with abandoned photographs. If we invest in digitizing them, what would we then do with the originals when they send them back? Yes, they send them back! Throw them away? The idea feels impossible.

A photo from one of the albums we inherited from Dario's Uncle. We don't know its significance or if family members are in the photo. Ironically, many of the photos are neatly captioned with the year and location, but no names.

Phase One: Operation Purge

After 22 years in our Virginia home, the weight of accumulation is real. Moving forces a natural purge, but since we haven’t moved in over two decades, we’ve had to be more intentional. A few years ago, I started selling unwanted clothing on Poshmark. We also donate items to local charities nearly every month, yet no matter how much we let go, there’s always more.

Just the other day, while cleaning, I found a plastic Easter egg hidden on the mantle—a relic from a long-forgotten hunt. We haven’t done an Easter egg hunt in years! It stopped me in my tracks, a small but powerful reminder of the history and memories embedded in these walls. And it also reminded me just how hard it will be when the time comes to move.

I’ve read a lot about decluttering, and the best advice is simple: stop bringing things into your home in the first place! We’ve fully embraced this mindset in our home in Lucca, where less is more. Renting it out to vacationers when we're not there also helps us keep things streamlined—there’s no room for excess. And while we technically have plenty of storage in our owner's closet, an attic and a cantina, we have no intention of filling it.

Home is Where the Heart Is

Dario and I are both children of divorced parents, and in many ways, that experience has shaped how we view home and family. When we bought our home in Virginia, we didn’t see it as our forever home, but more of a stepping stone in our journey. However, over time, it has become the only home our sons have ever known. As we watched them grow up here, we started to think about keeping it as a place they can always come back to, a place that represents stability and continuity—something neither of us really had the chance to experience in our own childhoods. It’s become more than just a house; it’s a symbol of the kind of home we want to offer our sons—a space where they can always find comfort, no matter where life takes them. But as we spend more time together, especially in Lucca, we’ve come to realize that home isn’t just a physical place. Our true home is wherever we’re all together, sharing moments and creating memories, whether in this house or across the Atlantic. Our time in Lucca feels just as special, and we’ve learned that home is ultimately about the people we share it with, not just the walls that surround us.

Heirlooms: The Stories We Inherit (and the Burdens We Carry)

Aside from photo albums, we don’t have a lot from our families—divorce on both sides tends to take its toll on heirlooms. What we do have are a few sentimental pieces: my mother’s antique armoire, which she passed on when moving into a smaller apartment, and my parents’ French monks’ trestle table, which they brought home after their years living in France (and became a point of contention during their divorce). We also have a console table from Dario’s father and an armchair from his mother, presumably items they brought with them when they immigrated from Italy. These pieces connect us to the past, but they also carry the weight of what we may one day need to let go of. Hopefully, by then, our boys will be settled into their own homes, ready to take on the blessing and burden of family history. After all, what’s the point of keeping all this stuff if not to pass it down? The proverbial hot potato—"your turn now!"

In contrast, our home in Lucca is filled with antiques selected to reflect the history and character of the space. Each piece is a silent witness to generations before us, chosen not just for function but for the stories they might hold—ironically, stories we will never know. The process of furnishing our Italian home was an adventure, imagining the lives these objects once touched. Unlike the inherited furniture in Virginia, these antiques were intentionally acquired, adding layers of history to our Lucca home in a way that feels connected to the city itself. More about our process decorating Casa Campolattaro along with Tutto Torna Antiques, here.

What to Grab in a Fire

Discussions of what we would grab in a fire come up from time to time, most recently when a house in our neighborhood burned down. When California wildfires destroyed entire homes, families lost everything in an instant, and I found myself reflecting again. What would we save? What could I bear to lose? I struggled to come up with anything so important, as long as my loved ones were safe.

One of three precious quilts made from years of saved baby clothes. Each square holds a memory—chubby legs, tiny fingers, and all the love in between.

Years ago, Dario had our old family VCR tapes converted to CDs, a thoughtful gift at the time. Now, we don’t even have a CD player. Technology moves forward, leaving behind yet another format of memories locked away, waiting to be rescued again. When I broke my foot in October, I briefly entertained the idea of digitizing our photo collection myself. But the sheer tedium of the task made me abandon the thought. During COVID, however, I did manage to let go of bins upon bins of baby clothes. Honestly, it was embarrassing how much I kept, considering we had already passed down lots to our nephews. It wasn’t easy to let go—these tiny outfits held so many memories. To preserve them in a way that felt meaningful, I sent fabric from the clothes to an Etsy seller who made three baby quilts—for my someday grandchildren. (Don’t tell my boys; they’d find it creepy!) But this allowed me to part with the clothing while keeping a tangible piece of those early years.

Shared Memories Makes it Easier

Dario and I have been together more than not—high school sweethearts who built a life side by side—we actually share most of our memories. I imagine for couples who met later, there are twice as many albums to sort through, each filled with a separate history. Our shared past means we don’t just tell each other stories; we remember them together. But even with this overlap, we still face the challenge of deciding which physical pieces of our history to preserve and which to let go.

Excess in America

Americans tend to have much larger homes than their Italian counterparts, giving us ample space to accumulate belongings. Walk-in closets, basements, attics, and garages become storage areas for things rarely used but too sentimental or valuable to part with. And when those spaces fill up, many turn to storage units, paying hundreds of dollars each month to house items they may never retrieve. It’s a uniquely American phenomenon—an entire industry built around keeping things we can’t fit in our oversized homes. We’ve sworn we won’t go down that route. If something is important enough to keep, it should have a place in our home. If not, it’s time to let it go. That said, we know we’re lucky to even have this dilemma—too much rather than too little—a privilege that isn’t lost on us as we try to strike a balance between abundance and simplicity.

A friend of mine is blazing the trail ahead of us, navigating the bittersweet transition of selling her family home. Over coffee recently, we talked about the emotional weight of this moment—how the logic of moving forward clashes with the deep ache of letting go. With her husband already abroad and her youngest heading to college, she’s packing up the house where they raised their kids, keeping a smaller home base nearby and joining him in Europe. In her blog, Blogging Midlife, she recently wrote about this shift, and her words resonated with me as we, too, begin to consider what comes next. Hopefully, when the time comes, we’ll pass the baton—our sentimental furniture included—to our boys. But we’ll have to come to terms with things if they’re not interested.

Holding On & Letting Go

We attach memories to things because they become tangible reminders of moments, people, and experiences that have shaped our lives. A particular object—a childhood toy, a piece of jewelry, or a family heirloom—can bring back vivid memories and a flood of emotions. These items act as symbols, connecting us to the past and helping us preserve parts of ourselves. They’re anchors that remind us of who we were, where we've been, and the relationships that have meant the most. It’s not really about the physical value of the items, but the emotional meaning we attach to them that makes them so special. They offer comfort, continuity, and a sense of identity, especially when life feels uncertain or we’re looking for a connection to something deeper.

Letting go is a process, one that requires emotional detachment, practicality, and sometimes a creative solution—like baby blankets from old clothes. The weight of our memories, both literal and figurative, is something I wrestle with. What do we keep? What do we pass down? What if they don't want it? And what, ultimately, do we allow to fade into history? But as I get older, I find myself less attached to things. I’d take an experience over an object any day—a trip, quality time with friends and family, a shared meal. That’s my love language.

A wise yoga instructor once said, Change is the only constant in life. It’s a concept often discussed in yoga—learning to accept and embrace change rather than resist it. And maybe that’s what this season of life is really about: understanding that memories don’t reside in objects, but in us.

For now, we remain the keepers of memories, balancing nostalgia with the need to lighten the load, knowing that someday, we too must decide which stories stay and which will become just another lost photograph in a flea market bin. We continue to navigate the delicate balance between holding on to memories and letting go of physical things. In the process, we're realizing it's not about the objects we keep, but the experiences we share and the people we love. When the time comes to let go, we hope our boys will be ready to carry the torch and, one day, pass down their own treasures to the next generation. Or, not...

What are you doing with your physical memories? Any tips or tricks to share?