There’s something about March that makes perfectly sane adults believe they are about to become organized people.

The sun stays out a little longer. The birds start chirping like motivational speakers. And suddenly I’m standing in my garage holding a plastic tote labeled “Miscellaneous” from 2008, convinced this is the weekend I get my life together.

Spring cleaning sounds romantic in theory — open windows, fresh air, lemon-scented cleaner. Reality? I opened one storage bin and inhaled enough pollen to qualify as landscaping. My car is no longer blue — it’s “Southern Mustard.”

I had a plan. One closet. Thirty minutes. Three hours later, I’m on the garage floor surrounded by extension cords, a broken crockpot, VHS tapes no one can play, and jeans I refuse to throw away because “you never know.”

Spring cleaning doesn’t clean your house. It ambushes your memories. You don’t just find junk. You find seasons.

An old church retreat mug. Crayon drawings. A dance recital program. A receipt from a restaurant that closed years ago but still feels like part of our story.

You think you’re organizing shelves. You’re flipping through your own history. And somewhere between sneezing fits and reorganizing the same toolbox twice, it hit me — March doesn’t make us restless because our houses are messy.

It makes us restless because light exposes things.

Winter lets us ignore clutter. But when the sun streams through the windows, it reveals dust on the baseboards and unfinished business in your heart.

It’s easier to throw away a cracked bin than to let go of resentment. Easier to donate clothes than forgive someone. Easier to rearrange the garage than admit you’re tired.

Spring cleaning feels productive because it gives us something tangible to control. But underneath the piles, we’re really deciding what still belongs in this season of life.

The broken lamp? Trash.

The treadmill that became a coat rack? Probably trash.

But the photo albums? The cards written in kindergarten handwriting? The evidence of a life fully lived? That’s not clutter. That’s legacy.

By the time I finished “organizing,” the garage looked worse than when I started. My allergies were in full rebellion. And I had accomplished about half of what I intended. Naturally.

And yet, sitting there on that dusty floor surrounded by decades of living, I felt something unexpected. Gratitude.

Gratitude that there were so many boxes to sort through. Gratitude that we had seasons worth remembering.

Gratitude that I’m still here to complain about pollen and extension cords.

Because the goal isn’t a perfectly organized life.

The goal is to carry forward what matters and release what doesn’t.

To keep the people. Keep the stories. Keep the laughter.

And let the junk go.

Even if I’m still keeping the jeans.

So yes, I’m grumpy. My sinuses are under attack and my garage is questionable.

But I’m grateful. Grateful for another spring. Another chance to open the windows. Another reminder that life moves in seasons — and every one of them leaves something worth holding onto.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going inside where the pollen can’t find me.