Swedish Death Cleaning: Why Letting Go Is Tough, Even for Just a Jacket

Recently, while exploring a second-hand clothing store, I engaged in a conversation with a tourist in Melbourne. She sought my thoughts on a vividly colored jacket she was contemplating purchasing. Despite my attire consisting solely of clean black garments, I encouraged her to go for it. However, she hesitated, sharing that although she had started to explore more unique clothing options since retiring, she was simultaneously trying to declutter her life.

I had learned about the concept of “Swedish death cleaning” through friends whose parents were paring down their possessions in preparation for the future. Out of nowhere, I mentioned that my father had passed away suddenly, leaving my brother and me the arduous task of sorting through his belongings. I’m not sure what prompted me to share my grief, but I felt a surge of emotion as I spoke.

The woman paused her browsing and listened intently. With a deep, raspy voice, she revealed that she had been a psychologist specializing in grief counseling before her retirement. She often mediated disputes among siblings who found it difficult to agree on how to distribute their deceased parent’s estate. Some wanted to quickly handle the estate, while others needed to meticulously review each item. I had encountered this years ago when my mother passed, obsessively searching for her letters in an attempt to preserve her memory. Hearing this perspective from a stranger in such an unexpected setting was oddly comforting.

As other shoppers moved about, she shared the advice she used to give her clients: create three piles. One for items my brother and I agreed could be discarded or donated, one for items we both wanted to keep, and one for items we were undecided about. She recommended not removing anything from the house until it had been sorted into one of these agreed-upon piles.

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I explained that it was too late for such organization in our case. We had already started clearing out the rooms in a rather chaotic manner, discovering old school reports and cherished photographs among the clutter. Our days at the house were filled with dust-induced sneezes, nostalgic reveries, and frustration over the seemingly endless task ahead.

I half-joked that my father had been the antithesis of a Swedish death cleaner, having saved everything from birthday cards from my children to old holiday T-shirts. His home was orderly yet cluttered with items kept more for sentimental value than practical use.

During our conversation, I realized that although it might have been easier if my father had sorted through his things before passing, clearing out his house was helping me see him in a new light. The peculiar choices we make about what to keep—such as why some love letters are preserved while others are not, or why certain recipes are saved—reveal what was significant to someone. Understanding the sentimental value behind these items could help us map out what truly mattered to our loved ones.

While theoretically, Swedish death cleaning is supposed to ease the burden for those left behind, it also risks erasing the physical memories that help survivors piece together the puzzle of who the deceased was. Through this process, I’ve uncovered aspects of my father I never knew. Although not all discoveries were welcome, many have eased the pain of his loss.

The woman seemed to understand but remained firm in her resolve to reduce her possessions so as not to burden others. Just then, her daughter appeared, clearly ready to leave. I asked if she thought her mother should buy the jacket, and she said no, explaining that it was too warm in far north Queensland for such a coat and that her mother already had plenty of clothes.