I just returned from my dad’s funeral.
He was 86. His health had been declining for years, and dementia had slowly taken pieces of him from us over time. He was tired and worn out, and in many ways, we were ready for his suffering to end. The struggle is over now, and he is at peace.
But as is often the case, the days that follow a loss aren’t just about grief. They’re about decisions. They’re about memories. And they’re about… stuff.
After relocating to Baton Rouge in 1979 from a small Indiana farm town named Elizabeth, near Louisville, Kentucky - where our parents and all of us kids were born - Dad eventually moved back near there over 30 years ago after my parents divorced. That 768-mile distance meant he wasn’t the kind of dad who played a daily role in my adult life, or in the lives of my kids and grandkids. But long ago, I accepted that for what it was, and I accepted him for who he was. Our relationship was good but the distance required more effort on everyone’s part, including the part of saying goodbye.
On the nearly 12-hour drive there and back, I listened to Theo of Golden by Allen Levi, which I can’t recommend strongly enough. I didn’t know how it ended until I got home, and I won’t spoil it here. But as the story unfolded, it struck me how much it circled around a quiet question that many families eventually face: What do we do with everything someone leaves behind?
Not just the obvious things, but the collections, the keepsakes, the trinkets - the items that mattered deeply to one person and may or may not carry the same meaning for the next. The items that were kept because they held stories and meaning, but where the storyteller is no longer there to connect the dots.
Over the years, my dad accumulated a lifetime of things. Some of it, we know the history of, and in a few cases, we even know who he may have intended to have it. But some of it… probably just stayed around longer than anyone expected, without any particular purpose or meaning.
Like many parents, there were occasional comments along the way - “That should go to so-and-so,” or “I always thought you might like this.” But nothing was ever clearly documented, and very little was actually given away while he was alive.
And so now, his children are left trying to interpret intentions that were never fully expressed.
To be clear, there’s zero conflict and no drama in our case, although that’s not always how these situations play out. There’s just… uncertainty.
And this isn’t unique to my family. In fact, it’s becoming the norm.
We’re in the early innings of what’s been called the Great Wealth Transfer, but in many households, it’s actually something different – something dubbed the Great Stuff Transfer. Decades of accumulation - furniture, collections, heirlooms, keepsakes, momentos - now moving from one generation to the next.
The challenge is that the next generation often doesn’t want it. Not because they’re ungrateful, but because their lives look different. Different homes, different styles, different priorities. Less space. Less attachment to physical things.
What one generation saw as “treasured,” the next may quietly experience as responsibility.
The part most people miss is that the real value of these items isn’t what they’re worth. It’s the meaning attached to them and the clarity around them. And for both the person giving and the person receiving, those things are best experienced while you’re still here.
If I could offer one piece of advice coming out of the last few days, it would be this: don’t wait to give things away.
Not because your family needs your stuff, but because they need you in the process.
When you give something away while you’re alive, you get to tell the story behind it. You get to explain why it matters. You get to see their reaction. Your get to create another memory with them. You get to confirm they actually want it. And maybe most importantly, you remove the burden of guessing later.
There’s also a practical side to this. I’ve seen families hold onto items out of obligation, only to quietly donate or sell them later. Not out of disrespect, but because the meaning wasn’t fully transferred - only the object.
A simple family conversation can change that. It doesn’t have to be formal or heavy. It can be as straightforward as saying, “Here’s what I have. Here’s what it means to me. What, if anything, matters to you?”
What you’ll often find is that some things are deeply valued, some things are appreciated but not needed, and some things can be let go of now, intentionally. Maybe some of it really is trash to everyone, including you. :)
And that’s okay. In fact, that’s the goal.
Because the alternative is what so many families experience - a house full of things, and a family left trying to decide what any of it meant or what to do with it.
We spend a great deal of time planning for the transfer of wealth, but very little time planning for the transfer of personal belongings. And yet, in many ways, these are the items that carry the most emotional weight.
There’s one more thought that’s been on my mind through all of this that came up in a recent post by my friend • Julio Melara: you don’t ultimately control your legacy. Other people do. Not your entire life’s work, just the part they experienced - the moments, the conversations, the way you made them feel.
Your “stuff” can support that legacy, but it can’t replace it.
So if you’ve been thinking, “I’ll deal with that later,” this might be your nudge.
Start now. Give a few things away. Tell the stories. Ask the questions. Lighten the load - for them and for you. I did it at Christmas two years ago and my three adult kids now all have a “Dad Box” that I designed on Etsy and filled with letters and “stuff”, to be added to over the hopefully many years to come.
Because in the end, it’s not about who gets what. It’s about making sure what mattered is actually understood. It’s about the stories behind the stuff, and the storyteller sharing the meaning of it all.