Stockpile or Spend?

I just happen to enjoy journaling, and I also appreciate and enjoy stickers. Always have. Like the yellow smiley face I got on my early writing papers or the proud little star on my second-grade spelling test. Stickers are tiny bursts of sunshine, affixed to whatever lovely thing I choose. They are silly, small, and—at least to me—nearly pure pleasure. These days, I have stickers in spades. I belong to a couple of sticker clubs, so fresh treasures arrive in my snail-mail box monthly. I love getting mail, and I love stickers, so that’s a double whammy of happy.
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My favorites? Trees and flowers in a certain style, or creatures with cute, sassy expressions. The glittery ones? Hard pass. I give those to my neighbor for her granddaughters. The misty woods, the fairy-dust shimmer, the crow with an attitude—those stay with me. I even keep an entire expanding folder (labeled carefully, of course) for my loose sticker sheets. The sticker books themselves are lined up on a sagging shelf that groans under the weight of all this so-called “pure pleasure.”

And yet—despite this bounty—I don’t always use the stickers I like best. I save them. I hoard them. The sassiest crow? Still tucked inside a little envelope. The prettiest tree? Waiting for the “perfect” page that never quite arrives. There’s never a spot special enough.

Which is ridiculous, even by my own estimates. What am I saving this little crow sticker for, anyway? A presidential address? My memoir release party? What possible hopes and dreams am I hanging on a one-inch piece of sticky paper? Really, Laurie? The little voice whispers: If you use it now, you may never see it again. It’ll sit on this journal page, and what are the odds you’ll ever flip back to it? You’ll miss seeing it. You’ll have to buy more. Suddenly, my sticker joy comes with a side of scarcity neurosis.

I’ve worked with clients in my Senior Move Management business who had similar attachments. Useless, silly things—at least by most standards. Paper clips, post-it notes, china, linens, spoons, you name it. One person’s trash is another’s treasure, and I learned fast that judging was not my job. My job was to gently, diplomatically help them see that not everything could—or should—make the cut. The china set, for example: everyone wanted to believe their kids would love it. Spoiler alert: they don't.

My very first referral never even knew I existed. He’d already skipped off through the veil, leaving me his earthly junk pile. My attorney, who was helping me set up paperwork for Onward & Upward, Inc., handed me the job. The client was gone, his son lived out of state, and I was hired to dispense with the belongings. It was an old, dark ranch near downtown Saratoga Springs, never renovated, packed with over a century’s worth of stuff. No debates, no bartering—everything had to go.

That’s where I found a whole basement wall of pegboard—eight feet tall, sixteen feet wide—every inch sprouting bent and twisted paper clips, each one valiantly holding something: a wrench, a pen, a baggie of screws, rubber bands, hinges, nails, cordage. The wrench itself had a hole in the handle. It didn’t need a paper clip to hang. And yet, there it was, tethered by a fragile loop or two or three of bent wire. As if that weren’t enough, unopened boxes of brand-new paper clips sat nearby, waiting in reserve. The scarcity gremlin had clearly set up permanent residence.

The Great Depression left its mark on more than one generation. Hoarders in training, all. Saving wasn’t optional; it was survival. Every bag, every jar, every rubber band might be needed later. I get it. But me? I have no such excuse. I’m not starving. Sticker clubs send me reinforcements every month. And still, I hesitate. Still, I tuck my favorites away like the world’s supply might suddenly dry up.

So, what are stickers to me, really? A way to mark my territory? A way to decorate my favorite things? A tiny test of my artistic intuition? Sure. But mostly, they are pure, uncomplicated pleasure. They’re also a form of self-expression—tiny declarations of who I am, what I like, what makes me smile. And maybe that’s the real rub: by saving the best, I’m holding back my own expression. And still, I hold some back. Why? Because some sneaky fear tells me that once it’s stuck, it’s gone forever. No take backs. No do-overs. The scarcity gremlin whispers: What if this is the best one you’ll ever get?

Most kids don’t seem to think like this. They slap stickers on lunchboxes, sneakers, foreheads—zero hesitation. Me? I curate them like crown jewels. Somewhere along the way, play turned into preservation. When did stinginess creep in? I don’t know. And honestly, I don’t need to know. The “why” is unknowable and unneccesary. What matters is the feeling. Once I FEEL the ickiness of it, I can pause, notice, and let its unsavory nature register. That pause cracks open a choice.

And here’s the heart of it: fear vs. trust, scarcity vs. abundance. The fear says: hold back, or you’ll miss out. The trust says: use it now, and watch what happens. Abundance is cheeky like that—it only proves itself once you dare to test it. And it’s not just stickers. It’s the good dishes, the nice clothes, the candles we’re “saving for later.” Newsflash: today counts. Life is the special occasion. I want to use the china. Wear the scarf. Light the candle. Stick the sticker.

When I finally do use one of my prized stickers, I get a double hit of joy. First, the zing of seeing it in its new home. Second, the smug satisfaction of proving my scarcity story wrong. The drawer isn’t empty. The mailman will bring more. The universe has a sneaky way of restocking joy, usually when you least expect it.

So yes, I still hesitate sometimes. I still notice the clench. But now I see it for what it is: just fear in drag. Not truth. Not reality. The truth is that joy multiplies when it’s spent. A sticker is only doing its job when it’s stuck to something. Better a sticker stuck than sulking in a drawer. Better the crow strutting across my journal than caged in a plastic sleeve. And when the scarcity gremlin hisses, save it, I just smile, peel, and press. Use it up. Stick it down. Trust the flow. More is coming. Always.

Field Guide Rule #20: Better spent than stashed—spend now, trust and save space for the unexpected gift.

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