T.O.S.S. – A Story of Letting Go
I left Toronto and moved back to Vancouver.
I hadn’t written in over a month.
It wasn’t because I didn’t want to. I was overwhelmed—emotionally, physically, spiritually. My heart was too full, and my hands were too tired.
But in the midst of it all, I found myself back in Toronto, standing in the shell of the life I had built, and making an impossible decision: to toss away 90% of my personal belongings and donate some to neighbours and charity. The remaining ten percent came with me to Vancouver. The rest—gone.
What is it like to throw away 90% of your life?
It’s hard.
Unbearably hard.
I cried over the most minor things.
A bottle of avocado oil cracked me open. It sat unopened since before my mom’s stroke. I had bought it for the simple joy of cooking—back when I thought I’d live in Toronto well into 2025 and beyond. When I held it in my hands, grief rushed in. I wept uncontrollably. “Why am I crying over oil?” I asked myself.
Because I was mourning a future that no longer existed.
So I gave the oil to my Greek dad as a small offering, a way to say goodbye.
And that was just one item.
My Greek dad, practical as ever, suggested ordering a dumpster. I’d never ordered one in my life. We got a 1.5-tonne bin. I had no idea what that meant in real terms—until I realized all of my life, everything I owned, weighed less than 3,306 pounds.
As I laid my belongings on the lawn, curious neighbours—who hadn’t spoken to me once during the hardest months of my mother’s illness—started to come around. “Why are you moving?” they asked. Their questions felt less like concern and more like projection, and eventually, I stopped explaining.
I asked for help. Six friends came. We created two piles: donate and toss.
Soon, the donation pile grew bigger than the garbage pile. That felt good. Some friends took things home, and I was grateful to know my past would live on with them.
Two encounters with strangers softened something in me.
One was a grandmother, newly moved to East York. I gave her a set of plates and bowls I had carried for twenty years—gifts from a university friend in Vancouver. She tried to offer me money. I said no. I told her about my mom and asked her to enjoy the plates on my behalf. She smiled widely. Her joy became mine.
Another was a young woman who thought I had overheard her conversation and apologized. I hadn’t. But I remembered her. She’d picked up a crystal geode a few days ago. “Wait here,” I told her. I ran inside and found my favourite set of crystals—rainbow-colored, a gift from my aunt. I gave her the entire tray. “Please keep them for me,” I said. “My mom is sick. I hope they protect you.”
She was deeply moved. And so was I.
In that moment, I realized I could feel abundant, even amid pain. That generosity is a form of healing.
The truth is, I didn’t want to leave Toronto.
I didn’t want to move to Vancouver.
But I had to. Not because I wanted to, but because life had made the choice for me.
And somehow, by opening my heart, by being vulnerable, by letting others in—I made it through.
It was painful. Exhausting. By the end, I was sick. My body shut down from the emotional shock of it all. Sleepless nights followed. One night, I was awake from 9 p.m. to 5 a.m. Just staring at the ceiling. Even in Vancouver, sleep stayed far away.
Grief has a rhythm. It wears many masks—fatigue, nausea, insomnia.
I tossed away perfectly good shoes because they didn’t fit in my suitcase. I left behind my favorite hand cream, even though I knew I’d need it later. The point was to toss. Not to justify, not to reason. Just… let go.
T.O.S.S.
Throw
Out
Sentimental
Stuff
And in doing so, I found something new: stillness.
When it was over, I looked at the photo of the filled dumpster—my life, in a pile—and I whispered to my inner child:
“Hey Elliot… I’m proud of you.
It’s okay.
I love you.
I’m sorry.
I love you.”
Even when the Uber driver to the airport questioned me—“Why are you leaving Toronto?”—at 3:45 a.m., I had no energy left to explain.
I just needed to go. I’m still tired. But I’m also lighter.
My place is clean. The listing photos are beautiful. It’s ready for the next soul to make their memories.
As for me—I’m learning how to love myself not through accumulation, but through release.
The courage wasn’t in keeping it all.
The courage was in releasing it.
In standing there empty-handed—and still choosing to walk away.I let go of almost everything I owned.
I gave away what I once thought I couldn’t live without.
I stood among the wreckage and still chose to move forward.I tossed 90% of my life away.
And found myself in what remained.
And I left unbroken.
(P.S. I am immensely grateful to my friends E, C, R, M, D, J & T, who stood by me, helping with this monumental task. It was a testament to their love and my own resilience that it was completed.)
(P.P.S. Why the move? See below)
A Crash Course in Life My Mom’s Stroke and New Normal
Last Saturday, my mom had a stroke. In an instant, our lives shifted dramatically.