There’s something about the things we keep—tucked away in a drawer, perched on a shelf, buried in a box—that says more about us than any photo album ever could. Not because they’re valuable in the traditional sense, but because they’ve been quietly bearing witness all along.
For me, one of those things is Curious George.
George doesn’t sit on a bed anymore, or come on car rides, or get tucked under an arm at night. These days, he lives in the closet, high on a shelf. I see him every morning—still soft, still smiling, still George. He’s been with me since childhood, long before I knew what it meant to carry comfort through time.
The Original Companion
Curious George was the first friend I didn’t outgrow. Long after I’d stopped playing with toys, I couldn’t quite let go of him. Even as time has changed everything else—homes, cities, hairstyles, careers—George has stayed put. He’s moved with me from one life chapter to the next, from childhood bedrooms to my first loft, from new apartments to the home I’ve built with intention. And through it all, he’s remained a kind of quiet witness. Never asking for attention, never taking up space. Just there.
He holds the emotional residue of my younger self. Not the whole story—just a quiet corner of it. His presence reminds me that who we were doesn’t disappear. It nests inside who we’ve become.
The Quiet Power of Small Things
In adulthood, we rarely talk about the objects that have stayed with us the longest. We praise the new. We declutter the sentimental. But some things resist donation. They earn their place. George is one of those things.
He’s not just a childhood memento. He’s a symbol of continuity. Of stillness. Of being known by something that never asked you to be anything other than yourself. And I find great comfort in that. A confidante. A bedtime buddy. A secret-keeper. The kind of friend who asked nothing of me except to be held.
These days, George has a few compatriots: Ant, who lives in my office terrarium; Herman the rubber frog; Daisy the ladybug. Each of these small companions speaks to a different form of comfort, care, and inner peace. But George? He’s the original. The OG. The one who was there before I had language for what comfort really meant.
Why We Keep What We Keep
Some people see sentiment as clutter. I see it as curation. George isn’t just a toy—I’ve never played with him in decades. But I keep him close because he reminds me of something foundational. Something pure. He represents the very beginning of my ability to soothe myself, to feel safe, to feel loved. He holds all of that in his tiny, flannel-stuffed arms.
He also reminds me of the power of objects to anchor us. Of how the past doesn’t need to be packed away to make room for the present. That you can hold space for who you were and who you are now—at the same time.
Not Just Nostalgia—A Philosophy
It would be easy to dismiss this as sentimentality. But to me, keeping George isn’t about living in the past. It’s about honoring the parts of ourselves that never left. It’s about letting softness remain in a world that asks us to be so hard, so often.
In my Happily Ever Always™ way of seeing the world, I believe in curating comfort—not just for show, but for the soul. George represents that impulse in its purest form. He doesn’t match the drapes. He doesn’t signal status. But he’s mine. And that’s enough.
What This All Reminds Me
We each have something—or someone—we’ve quietly carried with us. Maybe it’s a book. A letter. A favorite shirt. Or a small stuffed monkey who’s seen you through it all.
What matters isn’t that you kept it. What matters is that you still know why.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s where Happily Ever Always™ begins.