# I used to love finding the weird and joyful in secondhand shops, but it’s time to let go

I buried some old things in a box: clothes that no longer fit, books I won’t finish. I can’t make my way forward while still holding on.

I found myself in an op shop most days when I was young. I stopped by to help a friend close up, the bell ringing as I opened the door, flipped the sign and started on a familiar path. I would eye the spines of the books, gaze at the dark folds of menswear and squat over milk crates of vinyl. I didn’t always know what I needed from that shop. It was a ritual, and I was searching.

I was a student, working as a janitor, living in a crowded house. The op shop ritual helped with things I couldn’t otherwise afford: clothes for an interview, a toolkit, the bag I took to class. The things I found were useful and needed as I made my way into adult life.

“I bought a secondhand coat I didn’t like for a bargain price. Years later I found out what it was worth | Nova Weetman”

It has been a year of growing pains and grief. I have buried milk-teeth in pillows, faced my father’s funeral. There are friends I no longer know, parts of myself I can never be. I have reached that strange age when fewer things are possible, when life isn’t just about finding things, but losing them.

The fact is that disruptive times have affected secondhand retailers, too. People , increasingly . Op shops can face increasing overheads, not to mention the cost of moving unsellable donations. Many also rely on volunteers, a demographic that has .

Many secondhand retailers fundraise for social services, from food insecurity to animal welfare. They serve a purpose and build community (not just provide bargain dopamine hits for members of the consumer class in existential crisis). Op shops are cleaner now and more accessible. I see people walking out of these places with boxes of useful things, things they need. Things I already have.

Are op shops ruined, or have they just changed with the times? As all things do, as perhaps I should as well? I take some things I no longer use and bury them in a box: clothes that no longer fit, books I won’t finish (though not my century-old Little Women). Whatever I’m looking for, it’s time to let old things go. I can’t make my way forward while still holding on.

The op shop of my younger years is still there, though things have changed. I lay my box at the counter but decide against the old ritual of searching. I have everything I need. Perhaps making our way through adult life isn’t just about the grief of losing things but the joy of giving them away too.

When we’re young, we search for who we are. We can lose that with the passing of time - when the path becomes less familiar. The bell rings as the door closes behind me. Sometimes, new meaning comes from letting go.

---

 is a writer living on Kaurna land, Adelaide
```