Your Storage Is Almost Full

The notification popped up like it always does:

“Your iPhone storage is almost full.”

And, like I always do, I rolled my eyes and went to check what was taking up the most space. Photos. Messages. Notes. Music. All the things I love most, and also all the things I can’t seem to let go of.

So I started deleting. Screenshots I didn’t need. Duplicates of pictures. Random downloads from who knows when. Trying to clear space, trying to increase capacity.

But somewhere in that process, I made one wrong move and deleted everything in my Notes app.

Notes that went back years. Notes from when I was pregnant. Notes of dreams, grocery lists, plans, prayers, and random midnight thoughts that somehow all mattered. The letter I wrote to my grandmother on her birthday in 2016 and never printed. Gone.

And my heart sank.

It wasn’t just about losing digital files. It was the weight of realizing how much I’ve been holding on to, not just on my phone but in my life. The same way I hoard screenshots and half-written ideas, I hold on to emotions, memories, and moments that feel too sacred to delete.

So there I was, panicking, searching for a way to undo it all. And somehow, through iCloud backups and a little grace, I managed to get my notes back. Every single one of them.

But after everything was said and done, I realized something else.

All of my messages were gone.

And I’m the type of person who keeps messages. Long threads of conversations. Happy birthdays. Random check-ins. Because when you’ve lost people you love, those words become sacred. You start to think, what if this is all I have left? And you cling to it.

I’ve held on to old texts the same way I’ve held on to people I’ve already had to let go of. Because when someone’s gone, those messages feel like proof that they were here, that what you shared was real.

But this time, there was no backup. No way to restore them.

And that hit me. Because maybe that’s how life works sometimes. Some things come back. Some don’t. And the loss still stings, but it doesn’t mean the memory is gone.

Maybe that’s what the Spirit was trying to show me. That my remembering is enough. That even when I don’t have the tangible proof, my heart knows. My body knows. And that’s what counts.

We hold on so tightly to things — digital clutter, emotional baggage, relationships, stories — because the chaos feels safe. It feels like control. But maybe the real invitation is to trust that what’s meant to remain doesn’t need proof to exist.

So yes, my notes came back. But my messages didn’t. And somehow, that felt symbolic.

Because not everything that’s deleted is meant to be recovered. Some things are meant to stay gone, to make space for what’s next.

And maybe that’s the message in all this. When that little notification pops up — whether on your phone or deep in your spirit — saying, “Your storage is almost full,” it’s not just a warning. It’s an invitation.

An invitation to release, to make room, to trust that even if you lose a few things along the way, what’s meant for you will always be backed up by grace.