Hoarding Habits and What They Say About Your Brain Conquering Your Inner Squirrel

I’m currently staring at a drawer in my kitchen that contains three dead AA batteries, an old phone, a single incense, and a tangled web charging cables. I don’t own anything that charges via micro-USB anymore. I haven’t for years. Yet, if I even think about tossing that black-and-grey nest into the bin, my chest tightens. A small, frantic voice in the back of my skull whispers, “But what if you find that old Kindle in a box during a move and you need to power it up to see your 2012 highlights?”

That voice is my inner squirrel. He’s a twitchy little guy. He’s convinced that the apocalypse will be won by the person with the most obscure adapters and half-empty jars of marinara sauce.

We call it “clutter” when it’s on the counter. We call it “preparedness” when we’re buying a third backup power bank. Let’s be honest: hoarding is a lifestyle. I’m not talking about the tragic, floor-to-ceiling piles you see on reality TV. I’m talking about the “functional” hoarding most of us do. The digital tabs. The “save for later” folders. The closet full of clothes that might fit again if we suddenly develop a different bone structure.

This isn’t just about being messy or lazy. It’s a psychological survival strategy.

The Cord Graveyard and the Scarcity Mindset

Every adult I know has a Box of Cords. It’s usually tucked away in a closet or under the bed. It contains things like SCART leads, VGA cables, and chargers for Nokia phones that haven’t existed since the Bush administration.

Why do we keep them? Because we fear being “without.”

In my mind, that VGA cable isn’t trash. It’s a bridge. It’s a connection to a version of myself that was ready for anything. Throwing it away feels like admitting that a certain era of my life is dead. It feels like tempting fate. The moment I drop that cable into the trash, a situation will arise where I need exactly that 15-pin connector to save the day. I’m certain of it.

This is the scarcity mindset at work. It’s the fear that resources are finite and once they’re gone, they’re gone forever. It’s a primitive impulse. Our ancestors who kept the sharpest flint and the driest tinder survived the winter. The ones who “decluttered” their caves were probably eaten by something with much larger teeth.

When you hoard physical objects, you’re trying to build a fortress against an unpredictable future. You’re telling yourself that if the world goes sideways, you’ve got the spare lightbulbs and the mountain of bubble wrap to handle it. It’s a security blanket made of cardboard and plastic.

The Digital Hoarder: 47 Tabs and No Peace

Physical hoarding is one thing. Digital hoarding is a whole different beast.

I have 42 tabs open in my browser right now. One is a recipe for a sourdough starter I know I will never bake. Another is a long-form article about the history of the stapler that I opened three weeks ago. I haven’t read past the first paragraph.

If I close that stapler article, I’m admitting I don’t have time for it. I’m admitting my limitations. Keeping the tab open allows me to live in a fantasy world where I am a person who has the leisure time to master the history of office supplies.

Digital hoarding is about the fear of losing information. We live in an era where data is the new currency. We bookmark, we “like,” we “save to collection.” We treat our Instagram “Saved” folder like a digital attic. We think we’re being organized. We think we’re curating. In reality, we’re just burying ourselves in a different kind of junk.

It’s exhausting. Every open tab is a tiny bit of mental RAM being used. It’s a “to-do” item that never gets done. It’s a constant reminder of our own inadequacy. We aren’t just hoarding information; we’re hoarding potential versions of ourselves. The “Fit Me,” the “Chef Me,” the “Informed Citizen Me.”

I find myself scrolling through my bookmarks sometimes, looking for a specific link I saved in 2019. It’s gone. It’s buried under a thousand other “useful” things. The irony is that by hoarding everything, we effectively have nothing.

The Hidden Strengths of the Squirrel

It’s easy to mock the person who keeps every glass jar “just in case.” But there’s a flip side to this. Hoarding—in its milder forms—is often a sign of intense resourcefulness and creativity.

My grandfather was a king among squirrels. His garage was a cathedral of “might-be-useful.” If a hinge broke or a shelf collapsed, he didn’t go to Home Depot. He went into the garage and emerged ten minutes later with a piece of scrap wood and a jar of mismatched screws. He saw potential where others saw trash.

When you look at an old t-shirt and think, “That could be a rag,” or “I could turn that into a quilt,” you’re exercising a creative muscle. You aren’t just consuming; you’re reimagining. You’re seeing the soul of the object.

Hoarders are often high-empathy people. We don’t just see a broken mug; we remember the coffee we drank out of it while watching the rain in Portland. We don’t see a stack of old magazines; we see the inspiration we felt when we first flipped through the pages. The objects are anchors for our memories. Without them, we feel like we might drift away.

Security vs. Suffocation

There is a fine line between a well-stocked pantry and a house that owns you.

I’ve spent years trying to figure out where that line is. For me, it’s about the “Weight of the Wait.” If I’m keeping something because I’m waiting for a version of my life that doesn’t exist yet, it’s a burden. If I’m keeping it because it actively serves my current reality, it’s a tool.

I recently went through my “Emergency Bag.” I found a packet of crackers that expired in 2016. I felt a weird sense of loss when I threw them out. Those crackers represented a plan. They represented my belief that I could survive a catastrophe. Throwing them out felt like admitting I was vulnerable.

But I replaced them with fresh ones. And that’s the trick. You have to rotate the hoard. You have to prune the branches so the tree can grow.

If your “hidden fears” are running the show, your house starts to feel like a cage. You stop inviting people over. You stop moving freely through your own space. You become a curator of a museum of “What If.”

The Anxiety of the Empty Space

Why is an empty shelf so terrifying?

To a squirrel, an empty space is a failure. It’s an invitation for disaster. We feel the need to fill it. We buy things we don’t need just to occupy the void.

I noticed this when I moved into a larger apartment. I had an entire extra closet. Within six months, it was full. I didn’t consciously decide to fill it; it just happened. Nature abhors a vacuum, and my inner squirrel abhors a shelf without a stack of half-used notebooks.

This speaks to a deep-seated anxiety about our own enough-ness. We think that if we have more, we are more. We try to pad our lives with stuff to muffle the sound of the silence. We use clutter to distract us from the big, scary questions about purpose and mortality. It’s hard to have an existential crisis when you’re busy trying to find the lid to a Tupperware container.

The “Just in Case” Trap

The phrase “just in case” is the most dangerous sentence in the English language.

“I’ll keep this rusty pliers just in case.” “I’ll save this link to a 2014 blog post about SEO just in case.” “I’ll hold onto this pair of pants that are three sizes too small just in case.”

It’s a trap because “just in case” is an infinite category. Anything could happen. The sun could go out. You could be invited to a gala at the Louvre. You could suddenly decide to take up competitive pogo-sticking.

If you live your life for the “just in case,” you never live it for the “now.”

I’ve started asking myself: “If I needed this thing six months from now and I didn’t have it, what is the worst thing that would happen?”

Usually, the answer is “I’d spend ten dollars and buy a new one.” Or “I’d ask a neighbor.” Or “I’d realize I didn’t actually need it.”

Realizing that the world is abundant is the only cure for the squirrel brain. You have to trust that you can solve problems as they arise, rather than trying to solve every possible future problem today.

Your Hoard is Your Map

If you want to know what someone is truly afraid of, look at what they hoard.

If they hoard food, they’re afraid of hunger. If they hoard money, they’re afraid of powerlessness. If they hoard books, they’re afraid of ignorance. If they hoard old clothes, they’re afraid of aging.

My hoard is mostly technology and paperwork. I’m afraid of being disconnected and I’m afraid of being forgotten. I keep the old tax returns and the dead hard drives because they are proof that I was here. They are the paper trail of my existence.

It’s a bit pathetic when you say it out loud. But it’s human.

We’re all just trying to make sense of a world that feels increasingly fragile. We’re trying to grip onto something solid. We’re building our little nests and hoping they’re strong enough to withstand the wind.

So, I’m going to go back to that kitchen drawer. I’m going to look at those micro-USB cables again. I might even throw one away. Probably not all of them—let’s not be crazy. I’ll keep the longest one. You know, just in case.

But I’ll acknowledge the fear. I’ll look at that cable and see the 2011 version of me who was so worried about being “plugged in.” And then I’ll close the drawer.

What are you keeping in your “just in case” box? And what would happen if you just… let it go?

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– Best, Stable Grace Staff Writers & Editors