Bless This Mess

Raised as a hoarder, one writer finds beauty—and family connection in the knickknack chaos in her home.

- By Sadie Stein. Photographs by David Lewis Taylor

Recently, a 17-year-old neighbor came by to babysit for the first time. As she was leaving, she said, shyly, I love your decor. Can I ask where you got the old things in your apartment?” I was very flattered I but didn't know how to answer: My family and stuff have a sort of complicated relationship.

People have used a lot of words to describe the apartment where I've lived for the past 10-plus years, first alone and now with a family: Layered. Maximalist. Quirky. Some assume-with the vintage-looking wallpaper, the gallery walls, old books, brass doorknobs stacked on the piano, and the mishmash of well-loved furniture and china-that my family has been here for generations. In a way, they're right.

What I usually say is some variation of: “A lot of it comes from my parents.” Or, I love flea markets and prefer things with history and wear. None of this is untrue, but the fact is, I come from a family of hoarders. I don't use that word loosely; I'm talking about the clinical term, often accompanied by a constellation of other psychiatric abnormalities, which is the focus of deeply distressing reality programming and both a source and a symptom of great personal pain.