When December rolled around, we were both exhausted. I had worked non-stop during the weeks, and the weekends I wasn’t working were filled with packing and cleaning. But somehow- by some sheer miracle- our suitcases were filled and organized. We were looking forward to eating far too much, and hugging Audrey’s family hello. Welcoming the idea of being around them more often.

The night before our flight was strange. Neither of us slept particularly well. And in the morning, in a haze of delirium, I took out the garbage that included a pair of old, badly ripped and discoloured jeans I’d been wearing the night previous.

Thirty minutes before our ride arrived, Audrey made her gentle plea for one last “walk around the block.” And that’s when I quietly uttered my most infamous phrase:
“I can’t find my…”
She turned to me, hesitantly: “What?”

Yes, I admit it – I lose everything, k? If I weren’t going to be cremated, “I can’t find my…” would be engraved on my tombstone.

This time, it was:
“I can’t find my visa, license, or bank card…”

Panic set in. The stomach-sinking, tear-stinging, rage-ripping-through-every-pocket kind of panic. You know the one where you check the same spot 16 thousand billion times because maybe it magically reappeared.

As I cried silent, panicked tears, and my overly patient wife managed her internal rage, I mumbled:
“I think they might be in the dumpster…”
“Why would they be in the dumpster?”
“…Maybe they’re in the jeans pocket I threw out.”
“…You threw out your jeans?”

I stared at her. Then grabbed the key to unlock the massive green bin. Seconds later, I was upside down, legs flailing in the air, hips lodged on the bin edge, boots dangling while I hung over the abyss.

That’s when a neighbor walked by and casually asked, “Keys?”
“No!” Audrey replied, before I seconded – my voice echoing from the depths of poubelle hell. “Cards!”
She’d “bin” there before.

Bad jokes aside, I couldn’t find them. All five-foot-nothing of me couldn’t reach deep enough, and I couldn’t take the stench any longer.

But here’s the thing – the message wasn’t lost on me.
I’ve seen omens unfold. I’ve watched meaning bloom out of chaos. And I didn’t take this one as bad. It felt more like a metaphor: searching for something that no longer exists. A signal that the long, messy process of letting go had already begun.

Letting go of an identity.
To make space for a new one.

Ever had a “dumpster moment” before a big life change?

Tell us your stories of misplacing the important stuff—literally or metaphorically—right before everything shifted.

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