I don't think I've ever lived somewhere that didn't have stacks of boxes, except maybe the house I lived in until I was 11. Seriously, my mother's back deck is filled with stacks of boxes and plastic crates full of her sewing stuff, and she's lived in her house for 22 years.

I'm staring at a stack of boxes right now, at the end of my couch. They're full of sewing and knitting supplies and photographs. My bedroom is more storage space than living space; mostly yarn and raw fleeces for spinning. And that is fine, because it's my damn stuff, and I'm not interested in throwing it away.