What is already here

I’m clearing out my pantry.

I meant to do it in December.
I really did.
But the cupboard stayed closed while the days filled up with other things.

Now it’s January. The year has already started moving, and I’m standing here thinking: this timing feels right. Not late. Just honest.

I take things off the shelves slowly. I actually look at them. And almost immediately, I know — this isn’t really about the pantry.

What catches my eye first are the glass jars.

I love saving them. It’s a thing.

I don’t like waste, for one. But it’s more than that. I love noticing small, overlooked things — the jars most people throw away without a second thought. Solid. Useful. Quietly beautiful.

Sometimes it’s really hard to get the old labels off. They cling. They tear. They leave sticky traces behind. It takes patience to remove every last mark of what the jar once held, what it used to be called.

And when it finally stands there — clear, unlabelled, just itself — something in me softens.

No branding.
No instructions.
Nothing to live up to.

Just the jar, ready to be used again.

As I keep unpacking the cupboard, I realise how much I’ve forgotten.

Things I packed away carefully.
Things I thought I’d need.
Things that made sense once.

We store things and then move on. We build on what’s next and what’s new, without ever really returning to what we already have.

Standing there, I start asking quieter questions — not just about food, but about myself.

Is this still necessary?
Does it still nourish me?
Can it be reused — or is it asking to be released?

And then something shifts.

Looking at all these ingredients, I don’t see lack.
I see possibility.

I see creativity.
I see choice.
I see a life that can be cooked, baked, made, and shaped in many different ways.

Not because I need more —
but because I already have enough.

I also notice how much of what’s in my pantry is store-bought.

Someone else’s recipe.
Someone else’s idea of what I need.
Someone else’s packaging telling me how this should be used.

I recognise this pattern instantly.

How often do we live like this — trusting external instructions more than our own knowing?

Looking at those shelves, it becomes clear to me: nothing there can replace what actually guides me.

What I already have is intuition — a quiet, embodied knowing.
And beneath that, something even deeper: wisdom.
Not a thought, but a way of seeing — one that doesn’t come in packaging.

But intuition needs space to be felt.
And wisdom needs space to be seen.

Not just space created by clearing things out —
but space created by allowing everything that’s already here to belong.

Even the parts I don’t like.
The parts I fear.
The parts I’d rather hide at the back of the cupboard.

Those too.

Because wisdom doesn’t arise through effort or performance.
It arises when we’re open enough — honest enough — to let the whole pantry be seen.

That, to me, is true self-love.

Not fixing.
Not improving.
But including.

Eventually, I start putting things back.

Not everything.
But what belongs.

There’s more space now. More air. More ease.

The pantry will get messy again.
So will I.

That’s not failure.
That’s life lived honestly.

For now, this is enough.

And maybe that’s the quiet invitation this cupboard has been offering me — and perhaps you too:

What is already here?
What inner clarity is quietly waiting — underneath the noise of shoulds and packaging?
And what might become possible if you trusted what you already carry?