The “just in case” drawer– every home has one. It may be a kitchen drawer, a desk drawer, a shoebox in a closet, or a plastic bin marked “misc.” Its contents are familiar: three dead batteries, two live ones of unknown age, a key to something no longer owned, a tangle of charging cords, instruction manuals for appliances that left the house during the first Bush administration, and a packet of soy sauce from a takeout meal prior to the pandemic.
This is the “just in case” drawer: a modest museum of possibility.
The drawer is not necessarily messy. In fact, many perfectly organized people have one. The contents may be arranged in tidy categories, perhaps in small bags or recycled margarine containers. But the governing principle is the same: “I may need this someday.”
To be fair, sometimes we do. That small Allen wrench has been useless for nine years—until the afternoon a neighbor arrives with a wobbly bookcase. The odd little button turns out to belong to a winter coat. A manual for a coffee maker becomes suddenly essential when someone presses the wrong button and the machine begins blinking “CLEAN” in several languages.
These victories are satisfying because they prove that our instincts were right. We kept the thing. The thing was needed. Civilization continued.
Of course, the drawer’s other inhabitants have less impressive credentials. There are mystery keys that inspire elaborate stories. Surely one opens a secret lockbox. Or the old garage. Or perhaps the vacation cottage we rented in 1994. There are cords whose purpose cannot be identified by anyone, including the person who bought them. There is a lone earring, a bent paperclip, and a collection of rubber bands that have fused into a sticky blob.
We keep these objects partly because we dislike waste. Many of us were raised by people who knew how quickly a useful item could become scarce. A takeout container was not disposable; it was Tupperware with a past.
We also keep things because objects hold stories. The program from a school concert may be only paper, but it recalls a child daydreaming on stage. An old keychain may summon a first car or a first apartment. The sentimental object is not really competing for drawer space with a screwdriver. It is competing with the possibility of forgetting.
That is why decluttering advice can sometimes sound too stern. Not every possession needs to earn its place by being practical, attractive, or useful within twelve months. A few objects are allowed to be witnesses to our lives.
Still, there is a point at which “just in case” quietly becomes “just too much.”
When a drawer will not close, when important papers vanish beneath expired coupons, or when one small storage spot multiplies into closets, cabinets, and pathways, it may be time for a gentle audit. Start with the easy cases: swollen batteries, dried-up pens, unidentified electronics, cracked containers, manuals for long-gone appliances, and keys no one can name.
Then make a simple rule: keep the memory, but not necessarily every object. Take a photograph of a sentimental item before letting it go. Save one representative keepsake instead of twenty. Put the truly important things—documents, spare house keys, medication information—in a clearly labeled place, rather than trusting them to a drawer filled with flotsam.
The goal is not an empty drawer. An empty drawer can feel suspiciously unprepared.
The goal is a drawer that can still perform its sacred function: holding the small, odd, occasionally useful pieces of daily life without taking over the house. Keeping a few things “just in case” is normal; persistent difficulty discarding possessions that creates substantial clutter or disrupts living spaces is a different concern and may warrant support.
So keep the spare batteries. Keep one or two containers. Keep that tiny screwdriver that has saved the day.
But perhaps let the 14th mystery key go.