Why I'm embracing Swedish Death Cleaning at 57

Telegraph

24-04-2025

My house is currently an assault course of bin liners, each one bulging with an eclectic mix of dog-eared books, burnt saucepans, half empty jigsaw puzzles and more. Much more. And it's all because of Döstädning, roughly and spookily translated as Swedish death cleaning.
Popularised by the book The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning by Margareta Magnusson, Döstädning technically involves decluttering and organising all your possessions to make it easier for anyone else who might otherwise have to take on the task. In other words, not leaving it to your kids to do once you're dead.
To be clear, this goes well beyond the realms of Marie Kondo or even darlin' Stacey Solomon. Instead the brief is to ruthlessly curate what matters and what doesn't.
Empty nesters
In my case that means chucking out three decades worth of stuff I no longer want, need or even remember how I came to possess in the first place.
After all, these days there's just my husband Martin and I living in our once-bustling Manchester home. Our older two sons are married and living in London, our youngest son has moved abroad and our daughter is away at university and has already indicated that post-graduation, her hometown is unlikely to feature in her plans.
The last drawer
That said, I hadn't planned to embark on a top-to-toe purge of our possessions. But then a kitchen cupboard proved to be the last straw – or, more specifically, the last drawer. Thanks to stacks of unwritten greetings cards and leaflets relating to appliances which sparked out years ago, it was almost impossible to open. At that ligament-wrenching moment I knew it was time to get my life – and drawers – in order.
Yet this grand clear out is not the prologue to putting the house on the market. We love the area, the garden, the friends who live in our little cul-de-sac and others who live close by. Anyway, memories pour out of every battered corner – of babies snoozing on our small, sun-blushed patio and get-togethers such as the karaoke party to celebrate my 30 th birthday at which we brutalised Madonna's back catalogue.
Nor is this about facing mortality. Although in my 50s I'm still fizzing with youthful ambition to succeed as a journalist and broadcaster as well as enjoying the sense of freedom that comes with an empty – if cluttered - nest.
A nostalgic endeavour
But with longevity of occupation comes the liability of hoarding. As one of our children wryly observed on a recent visit home, 'How on earth are you – or we – ever going to clear this place out?' It was said as a joke. But given he had counted four defunct hoovers in the cloakroom under the stairs it held more than a grain of truth. One day this job will need to be done – by default or design. Why not do it now? That way Döstädning is a nostalgic rather than negative endeavour.
Indeed as Magnusson writes in her book, Döstädning isn't the story of death and its slow, ungainly inevitability. But rather, as she puts it, 'The story of life, your life, the good memories and the bad. The good ones you keep. The bad you expunge.'
A sense of calm
There are lots of psychological benefits of Döstädning too. 'A tidy space often promotes a sense of calm, reducing stress and feelings of being overwhelmed,' Dr Elena Touroni, a consultant psychologist and co-founder of the Chelsea Psychology Clinic tells me.
'It also helps people feel more in control of their environment, which can be particularly beneficial during times of uncertainty. On a practical level, sorting through belongings while you're still able to make decisions prevents loved ones from having to manage it in the future, which can be an emotional and overwhelming task for them.'
Start with the least emotional first
So how to go about embarking on this Swedish death – or, as I prefer to term it, life – clean?
Ingrid Jansen and Lesley Spellman of the Declutter Hub and authors of Reset Your Home, Unpack Your Emotions And Your Clutter, Step By Step tell me it's important to make a plan.
'Work systematically around the house starting in the least emotional rooms first. In the kitchen and bathroom, for example, the decluttering decisions you need to make tend to be more practical than emotional so they are a good place to start.'
Dr Touroni suggests taking on small, achievable goals, such as tackling one drawer or shelf at a time, all the while asking myself practical questions: 'Do I use this? Does it serve a purpose? Would I miss it if it were gone?'
Author and psychotherapist Eloise Skinner also suggests that I schedule a particular time to work through harder tasks. 'This makes sure it doesn't get forgotten or overlooked – and can also make you feel accomplished when you tick it off!' she assures me.
Crusty toothbrushes and lidless Tupperware
With such advice ringing around my head, I started small (not least that wretched kitchen drawer). But it quickly becomes addictive.
In the bathroom I throw out loads of make-up (aubergine lipstick? What was I thinking?) and blitzed the cupboard under the sink – home to an unopened but battered cinnamon-scented gift set, half-empty bottles of self-tan and a pile of crusting electric toothbrushes (I once had to road test a ton for a newspaper feature). I do the same with some kitchen cupboards, binning battered saucepans, lidless Tupperware boxes and – inexplicably – a lace sky blue table runner .
From there I move on to clothes, operating under the guiding principle of whether I've worn a garment since the start of the pandemic.
There are times when I have struggled. There's an ice-cream maker we received as a wedding present which has never been used. I hate ice cream. Yet unflinching in its wrapping, it propels me back to that gusty November day when we got married 34 years ago.
Academia spared the axe
I also felt a terrible twinge of regret about getting rid of my A level notes. I studied English Literature, French and Ancient History so my files are crammed with essays and critiques, all carefully written in my pretentious teenage curlicue. It's a body of work which recalls the endless slog to secure good grades. How can I consign it all to the trash? My thoughts on Othello, Thucydides and Albert Camus go back in the cupboard to live another day.
Anything relating to the children also gives me pause. Emptying out what was their games cupboard sends me skittering into a world of memories. But I crack on. Given they are now aged between 20 and 32, I imagine a Harry Potter trivial pursuit with most of the pieces missing isn't their idea of entertainment.
I save the worst till last – my office. A small room tacked onto the back of the garage by the previous owner where, over the years, I have squirrelled myself away to pursue my ambition as a writer. There are piles of now hopelessly out of date reference books and desk diaries as well as heaps of newspapers and magazines bearing my work ('How to beat the time thieves' penned for one glossy back in 2006, still has lots of excellent advice.) How can I junk the fruits of my labours – even though the piles of yellowing articles are of value only to me?
But this is the beauty of Döstädning. Despite the title, there's no dead in this deadline. Some decisions can indeed wait another day.