Every year, without fail, something happens to me during the last week of December.

It’s not subtle.

I wake up with an almost irresistible urge to clean out all the things. Closets. Cabinets. Drawers. That one basket where random cords and half-used notebooks go to die. I suddenly care deeply about organizing batteries. I want to know which medications are expired, which pantry items are still good, and whether the clothes in my closet are things I actually love, or just things I’ve been carrying forward out of habit.

I put new organizational systems in place. I label. I consolidate. I recycle. I donate. I throw things away. I scroll after-Christmas sales and order storage containers like my future depends on it. It can feel a little frenetic, honestly, like I’m racing to clear the decks before the new year arrives. Like I want to step into January without any excess baggage, physical or otherwise.

And if I’m being truthful, my future self usually appreciates this part of me. She likes knowing the batteries work. She likes opening the pantry and trusting what’s there. She likes reaching for clothes that feel like her. She benefits from the care I took when I had the energy and the instinct to do it. Still, over the years, I’ve found myself wondering:

Is this just a productivity quirk?
A coping strategy?
Or is there something deeper—something almost spiritual—about this annual desire to cleanse, release, and begin again?

The Deeper Pull to Clear Space

Across cultures and traditions, cleaning and clearing have long been tied to ritual.

Spring cleaning.
New Year cleansing.
Sweeping ceremonies.
Purification rituals.
Threshold practices marking the end of one season and the beginning of another.

Long before productivity apps and minimalist trends, humans were using physical clearing as a way to process transition. When we clean, we’re not just organizing objects, we’re orienting ourselves in time. We’re saying: Something is ending. Something else is beginning.

And at the end of a year, especially a year that has been full, complex, or emotionally demanding like this one, that instinct can become especially strong. In the MyPeacein50 framework, peace isn’t something we wait for once life is perfectly ordered. It’s something we cultivate through small, embodied practices that help us feel grounded, present, and resourced. Cleaning, when approached with intention rather than urgency, can be one of those practices.

When Cleaning Feels Frenetic (and When It Feels Grounding)

It’s worth naming that cleaning can come from different places.

Sometimes it’s driven by anxiety.
Sometimes by avoidance.
Sometimes by perfectionism or control.

But sometimes, especially at natural transition points, it comes from something more instinctual.

A desire for coherence.
A need for closure.
A longing for clarity.

There’s a difference between cleaning as self-punishment and cleaning as self-care. Between cleaning to prove something and cleaning to prepare. When I look honestly at my end-of-year cleaning ritual, I can see both edges. Yes, there’s urgency. Yes, there’s energy. But there’s also devotion. Care. A quiet message to my future self that says: I wanted to make this easier for you.

That matters.

Why Cleaning Can Calm the Nervous System

From a nervous-system perspective, knowing where things are matters more than we often realize. Clutter doesn’t just take up physical space—it takes up cognitive and emotional space too. You know what I’ve mean if you’ve ever been to the home of a loved one that was full of clutter, where they couldn’t find things they wanted and kept accumulating more items to make up for it. When our environment feels chaotic, our nervous system has to work harder to orient, assess, and stay regulated. Cleaning and organizing can support regulation by:

• Reducing visual and sensory overload
• Increasing predictability and ease
• Supporting a sense of control without rigidity
• Creating clear cues of safety and readiness

When we know the batteries work, the food is fresh, and the medications are up to date, we reduce the number of small stressors our nervous system has to track. That frees up energy for creativity, connection, and rest. In this way, cleaning becomes a form of nervous-system care. Not because everything is perfect, but because things are clear enough.

Cleaning as Ceremony, Not Chore

What transforms cleaning from a chore into a ceremony is intention. Ceremony doesn’t require incense, music, or special tools (though you’re welcome to use them). It simply asks that we bring presence to what we’re doing—and meaning to why we’re doing it. Cleaning as ceremony might look like:

• Pausing before you begin and naming what you’re releasing
• Thanking items for what they’ve served before letting them go
• Moving slowly instead of rushing
• Choosing one area to tend rather than trying to do everything
• Letting the process be imperfect and unfinished

You don’t have to cleanse your entire life to honor the transition of a year. Sometimes one drawer is enough. Sometimes one bag of donations. Sometimes just cleaning out the batteries.

Making Space for Peace, Not Just Order

What I’m learning is that this end-of-year cleaning isn’t really about being organized. It’s about peace and clarity. Clarity about what matters most to me, clarity about my priorities. There is something deeply settling about opening a drawer and knowing exactly what’s inside. About trusting that what you reach for will work, fit, or nourish you. That kind of clarity reduces friction—not just in our homes, but in our bodies.

In the MyPeacein50 framework, peace is cultivated through small, repeatable practices that signal safety and support to the nervous system. Cleaning, when done with care, can be one of those practices. It helps us move from constant scanning—Where is that? Do I have what I need? What’s broken or missing?—into a quieter state of knowing.

I’ve noticed that when my environment feels tended to, my body settles more quickly. My breath drops lower. My shoulders soften. I feel less rushed and more capable of meeting whatever comes next. Not because everything is perfect, but because things are aligned enough to support me.

This kind of peace doesn’t come from doing more. It comes from removing what’s unnecessary. From letting go of excess, outdated versions, and quiet clutter we’ve learned to tolerate. Cleaning as ceremony is a way of saying: I want my external world to support my internal one.

And as we approach the threshold of a new year, that intention matters. We don’t need to know exactly what we’re moving toward. We only need to make enough space to meet it with steadiness, clarity, and care. That, too, is peace.

“Out With the Old” as a Boundary

There’s also something boundary-setting about end-of-year clearing. When we decide what stays and what goes, we’re practicing discernment. We’re saying: This still fits. This no longer does. That applies not only to objects, but to habits, expectations, and roles we may have been carrying unconsciously. Cleaning gives us a physical way to rehearse that skill.

What am I done holding?
What no longer needs to come with me?
What do I want to make room for—even if I don’t yet know what it is?

Peace often begins with subtraction.

This Being the Last Blog of the Year

This is the final blog of the calendar year, and there’s something fitting about closing with this theme. I don’t yet have everything mapped out for what’s next. There are ideas forming. Directions I’m curious about. Offerings that feel like they’re on the horizon—but not fully shaped. And that feels okay.

Just as cleaning creates space without immediately filling it, I’m allowing the new year to arrive without rushing to define it. Trusting that clarity will come, not from forcing, but from making room. Sometimes the most important thing we can do at the end of a season is clear the space and let ourselves rest inside the not-knowing.

What I’m Loving This Week

Sound:
The soft rhythm of cleaning sounds—drawers opening and closing, items being placed intentionally, the quiet hum of the house as things find their place.

Practice:
Cleaning one small area at a time, with breaks. Letting it be slow, human, and unfinished.

Tool:
Clear bins and simple labels—not for perfection, but for ease. A way of saying, Future me, I was thinking of you.

Quote:
“Clarity comes from making space, not filling it.”

Song:
“Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness” – Smashing Pumpkins
If you’re not an SP fan, you may not know that the first song on their epic double CD of the same name is a calm piano instrumental that helps me focus and ground – and decide what type of cleansing I need that day.

A Gentle Closing Practice

As the year comes to a close, try this:

Choose one small space—physical or symbolic.
Clear it with care.
Name what you’re releasing.
And then pause.

You don’t have to know what comes next.
You only have to make space for it.

A Closing Reflection

Cleaning as ceremony isn’t about starting the new year perfectly.
It’s about starting it intentionally.

With less weight.
With clearer ground beneath your feet.
With a little more peace already in place.

Thank you for being here this year.
For practicing.
For pausing.
For making space.

More will come.
Just not all at once.