The Box In The Attic

We think compartmentalization is control.

That if we put what we no longer want in a box,

label it clearly,

and store it somewhere high and out of sight,

we’ve mastered it.

We call it strength.

Functioning.

Moving on.

But what we’ve really done

is built a house on top of what we refuse to feel.

At first, it seems to work.

The rooms look clean.

The air smells fresh.

We tell ourselves the past is handled

because we’ve shut the door on it.

But boxes don’t stay sealed forever.

Moisture seeps in.

Pressure builds.

And what we bury

finds its way out—

through cracks in our calm,

through overreactions,

through numbness that masquerades as peace.

Eventually, what’s unprocessed

starts to leak.

Down the walls.

Into the wiring.

Warping the floors and weakening the beams.

Until the whole foundation

feels unstable.

That’s the danger of compartmentalization.

It convinces us that exile is healing.

That silence is safety.

But buried emotions don’t die.

They ferment quietly, expanding beneath the surface,

shaping our patterns in the dark.

At some point,

we all have to climb the attic stairs.

The floorboards creak like an old confession.

The air smells faintly of cedar and neglect—

memory and time woven together.

We open the boxes

and sit in the half-light with what we find.

Let the air move through it.

Name what’s inside.

Decide what still belongs

and what we’re finally ready to release.

Because integration is the real freedom.

Not the closing of a box,

but the courage to unpack it

and stay.