‘Toy Story’ Convinced Me My Toys Had Feelings—and I’m Still Dealing With It

My last stint in therapy was, at least partially, triggered by a pile of stuffed animals. When my parents decided to move from New York to Tennessee four years ago, they asked me to sort through the last few things I’d left behind at my childhood home. A lot of it was easy to let go, but my collection of teddy bears, Beanie Babies, and dolls posed a challenge. If it had a face, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.

I blame Toy Story.

I knew, of course, that these toys weren’t real, that they didn’t have feelings, and that they wouldn’t be sobbing on their way to the dump, getting mauled by whatever crunches things up inside a garbage truck. But every time I thought about loading them into a trash bag, my stomach tied itself in knots. I told myself I’d deal with it later.

A quick scan of the internet confirmed I’m hardly the only person who feels this way. One recent survey found that 30% of people cite organizing sentimental items as their number one obstacle to decluttering. Some even fault the Toy Story franchise, which gets its fifth installment this weekend: “I just feel scared to donate my old toys because Jessie was donated, and it really messed her up,” wrote one person on Reddit’s decluttering forum.

It turns out there’s more to it than just crushing sentimentality. “We bond to dolls and stuffed animals because they are what psychologists call transitional objects—the first things, in early childhood, that stood in for a caregiver’s comfort while we learned to self-soothe alone,” says Rod Mitchell, MC, MSc, a registered psychologist. “A bear with a face we can read, one we named and slept beside, gets filed in the brain alongside relationships rather than possessions. Throwing it out can feel less like clearing a shelf and more like a small betrayal.”

When I brought the issue to my therapist, we dug into the time when I first bonded with the toys. We talked about growing up as an introverted (sometimes painfully so) only child and spending countless hours dreaming up personalities for my stuffed animals, putting on dance shows for them, and celebrating their birthdays. Sometimes they even had weddings or went to math class!

We also discussed what was happening in my adult life at the time—and there was a lot. My parents were moving from the house we’d lived in my entire life, and I was leaving the apartment I’d shared with roommates for a decade for a studio of my own. I wasn’t sure if it would be the best thing ever or if I’d die of loneliness eating Kraft mac and cheese on the couch. This was also the summer I turned 30, which didn’t help. I had bills, a place of my own, and a cat. Exciting—a dream come true! Also terrifying.

I’d love to say all this intellectualizing helped me toss those old toys right into the donate bin, but it didn’t. They’re still in my parents’ basement (that move didn’t materialize nearly as quickly as they told me it would), and I’m still avoiding them. But after talking to a few pros, I have a plan.

The first method that spoke to me came from Marie Kondo. In her 2011 book, Spark Joy, she wrote that even as a teen, at the peak of her tidying obsession, she couldn’t bring herself to toss a beloved stuffed dog that was causing her allergies. So she held a memorial service of sorts. “I always thank my things when I discard them, but I treat things like stuffed animals that seem to have a soul with extra respect,” she wrote. She suggests covering their eyes to make them look more like ordinary objects, which I’d probably skip, but the concept of acknowledging them could help.

That idea led me to the advice that resonated most. Matt Paxton, a downsizing expert and author of Keep the Memories, Lose the Stuff, suggests sharing the toy’s story. “Tell your family about the toy itself, how and when you got it, why you loved it so much, and who you played with when you had it,” he says. “When you tell the story, oftentimes you realize that you may not need the item as much because it represents a great or better time in the past and not the present.”

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense, especially to me as a writer. So here I am, telling my own toy story—and hopefully it’s a little less traumatizing for other overly nostalgic people than the one Pixar gave us. My collection of toys helped me find my way in the world. They offered comfort, companionship, and a reliable audience for a shy kid figuring out how to take up space. And unlike Woody and Buzz, who needed a kid to love them, my toys don’t need me anymore.

I’m not sure I’ll ever become the kind of person who can toss a teddy bear into a bin without a second thought. But maybe the goal isn’t to detach completely, just to appreciate these toys for what they gave me and let go as gently as possible.

At least that’s what I’ll tell myself the next time I venture into my parents’ basement.