What hoarders’ homes and lucky packets have in common

Helping a hoarder move house is not your average packing job, my sister sighed dramatically.

No, it’s more like opening a giant lucky packet, the kind you had as a child where you never quite knew what you were going to get.

Except this one is life-sized, layered in dust and comes with a surprising amount of emotional weight.

At first glance, the whole experience felt overwhelming. There were boxes stacked on boxes, cupboards that refused to close and drawers that haven’t seen daylight in years.

But once the process began – slowly, carefully, respectfully – the clutter started telling stories. We unwrapped yellowing newspapers from decades ago, preserved as if it were a historical artefact.

Beneath one, a collection of handwritten letters tied together with ribbon; fragments of a life once lived loudly, now folded into silence.

Then, just when we thought we had seen it all, out popped a single roller skate and three identical can openers, each one still in its original wrapping.

Sorting through boxes was almost theatrical. Every box was a reveal. Every bag held the possibility of something meaningful, or something completely absurd.

Like a lucky packet, there’s a strange excitement to it. What’s next? Treasure or trash? Often, it was both at the same time.

But beneath the items lay something deeper. To the person who owned these items, they were not random at all.

Each object carried a reason. Sometimes practical, often emotional.

I realised that letting go was not simply a matter of tidying up; it could feel like erasing parts of oneself. That’s why helping a hoarder move required more than strong arms and cardboard boxes.

It demanded patience, empathy, and a willingness to pause when a seemingly insignificant item turned out to be anything but.

Laughter bubbled up when we discovered five pairs of reading glasses or a long-forgotten novelty mug. These moments mattered, because they softened the edges of what could otherwise be a heavy process.

I realised that helping a hoarder move was less about clearing space and more about navigating a personal archive.

It became a reminder that our belongings, however ordinary, can become anchors for memory, identity, and comfort.

And the owner finally realised that her treasure could be another’s trash. And she accepted that with grace.

But not before stealing an item or two from the trash and packing it with items to keep.