The Art of Not Throwing Stuff (or Dreams) Away
I’ve always been a keeper of things…
Some of the trash I can’t let go of.
Not just stuff like receipts or fabric scraps I swear I’ll use someday—but real, sentimental, arguably ridiculous things. Like the plastic fork the boy I had a crush on in eighth grade used to eat chocolate cake at lunch. He tossed it toward the trash, missed, and I—very casually, very coolly—pretended to drop something and picked it up. And then kept it. For years.
So it’s not shocking that I still have a 1940s saltines tin I bought at a thrift store, filled with bits of paper and objects (like that plastic fork) that probably only make sense to me. Friendship bracelets. Concert ticket stubs. DIY punk flyers from when Sublime and No Doubt played in suburban backyards and we felt like we were discovering fire. Literal trash—but with emotional value.
So when I recently unearthed a binder of half-learned song lyrics, failed guitar tabs, and a typewritten bucket list from—let’s be generous—20 years ago, I wasn’t surprised.
But I was surprised that I’d actually done some of the stuff on it.
Like going on a boat ride. Which sounds sweet until you know that the captain was a guy I met in a bar who was both paraplegic and the only one who knew how to sail. Also: drunk. We set out to sea anyway (what could go wrong?). I remember my friend Helen’s girlfriend brought a guitar and we all sang King of Carrot Flowers while I fought off seasickness with a turkey sandwich and Jägermeister, at the suggestion of the captain (which is probably the worst and most effective cure). I don’t recommend it (the seasick cure or sailing for the first time with an alcoholic stranger), but technically: bucket list item = checked.
Then there was travel through Europe. That decision happened waist-deep in the Pacific Ocean, on a whim, because the salt air, being with one of my BFFs, and negative ions made me remember the naive invincibility of youth. In Paris, I drank red wine in the bar where Edith Piaf got rowdy with her boxer boyfriend. I walked in Henry Miller’s footsteps through Montmartre. I had a 24-hour love affair with a French photographer who made me feel like a muse—by which I mean he took maybe five photos of me in my slip while chain-smoking and monologuing about how he can’t go more than a few days without sex.
Then there were the less glamorous items.
Horseback riding? More like dirt-in-your-mouth, sweating-under-a-helmet, watching-a-horse-poop-in-front-of-you for an hour while slowly cooking under the sun. No one mentioned the part where you walk like a cowboy with a pulled muscle for three days after.
Camping? A ten-minute walk from our campground to the beach turned into a three-hour survival exercise on my honeymoon. No cell service, no shade, no water. I tied a shirt around my head and trudged forward like Chevy Chase in Vacation.
But what really struck me wasn’t what I had done—it was the stuff I hadn’t. And how many of those “someday” dreams I don’t even want anymore.
Like making a documentary. About what? Unclear. But past me was apparently very passionate about it.
Roller skating all day? I put on skates recently, stood still for 60 seconds, and then carefully sat my ass down like an elderly giraffe. Some dreams are better left unrealized.
Some items were fuzzy—like fishing. Maybe I did it on that sailboat and just forgot? If so, I’m counting it as a win.
Some were darker—like learning to shoot a gun, which I ended up doing when I had a stalker. Not something I ever wanted to check off that way.
And then there were the two items I just—just—started doing in the past few weeks. After decades of waiting.
Make a dress from a pattern.
I’ve wanted to do it for years, maybe since the time I made that list. I didn’t decide with intention. I just fell in love with some fabric at the store and—for once—refused to let it collect dust in the “someday” pile. Just over a month later, I’ve sewn five dresses. I wear them constantly. Every time I put one on, I feel this low-key pride. Not because they’re perfect (they are NOT). But because I made them.
Learn guitar for real.
This one snuck up on me, too.
If you’ve been around, you know we moved last year from our tiny place in Sonoma County—where we lived for 13 years—to my late grandmother’s house in Orange County, where I grew up. We’ve been able to live in a space that’s only ever held people from our family. It’s not lost on me how lucky I am that my family offered this, and how much I needed it after being far from them for so long.
One day my dad mentioned, casually, that maybe we could set up his drum set in the bonus room. It took a while—boxes, moving, life—but we cleared it out and created a music space a few weekends ago. I got Luca a keyboard, hoping we could be a multigenerational band. He’s five and mostly into Minecraft, so we’re not quite there yet. But I’ve been picking up my guitar. Practicing almost every day. I’m starting lessons soon.
And I suck. I really do.
But I’m trying.
And that counts.
Here’s the thing: it’s not about being amazing right away.
It’s about letting yourself be terrible at something for way longer than you’d like… until you aren’t anymore.
That Ira Glass quote about how your taste will outpace your skill? It’s real. The hard part isn’t starting—it’s continuing when your start sucks.
And that’s where most people give up.
But it’s also where most good things begin.
So here’s what I want to leave you with:
- Make a bucket list, even if it’s messy.
- Let it evolve. You will, too.
- Be brave enough to suck at something.
- And then… keep going.
And if you’re looking for a place where trying, flailing, experimenting, learning, messing up, starting over—and maybe even thriving—isn’t just accepted but celebrated?
That place is Craftcation, our conference for creatives.
It’s the space where bucket list dreams are born or reborn. Where you can take that thing you’ve been wanting to do forever and finally try it—with community, support, and people who won’t laugh if your first attempt is a glorious disaster.
Early bird registration is open now.
Payment plans are available.
And yes—I’ll be there, proudly wearing one of my slightly crooked dresses with darts in all the wrong places. I’ll try to spare you my guitar playing… but I won’t stop practicing.
And I hope you won’t stop, either—whatever imperfect, wonderful, messy thing you’re just beginning.
Love, Nicole S.
