I have 11,788 unread emails. No, I didn’t round it. No, I didn’t soften it. Yes, that number updates itself in real time. It’s like a guilt-based fitness tracker I never asked for.
Every time I open my inbox, it feels less like checking emails and more like opening the door to a storage unit. I’ve been paying rent emotionally since 2007. And here you are as well, reading this. Which means you’re complicit. In that case, welcome to the inbox. Let us suffer together.
My Emails Are Alive, And They Hate Me
Somewhere between the 300th promotional email and the 47th job alert, my digital clutter stopped being data and became more of a presence. My unread emails are not passive. They loom. They whisper — a lot.
“You might need me someday.”
“What if you delete the wrong one?”
“Remember that furniture store sale from 2017? You didn’t even have a couch then. But what if future-you wants that couch?”
This is literally how it starts. This is how rational adults end up emotionally hostage to a subject line that reads: “Don’t Miss Out!!!” Miss out on what exactly? A 10% discount on regret?
The Delete All Button: A Modern Moral Crisis
Every inbox has it. Yours has it. Mine has it. We have all seen it, stared at it, hesitated over it: the small, innocent button. Delete All. Two words. One apocalypse.
What if that email from five years ago contains proof of something? What is something? I don’t know. But it does feel important. Potentially life-altering. Possibly useless.
This is the paradox: I have never needed any of these emails. And yet deleting them feels like erasing alternate timelines where I was more organised, more decisive, and more capable of returning things within the return window.
Screenshots: Evidence of a Life I Refused to Process
My inbox is not alone in this rebellion. My phone gallery contains screenshots of:
- Tweets I was definitely going to reread
- Recipes I will never cook
- Notes app thoughts I don’t remember thinking.
- Directions to places I already went to and hated
Each screenshot is just a frozen moment of intention. “I’ll deal with this later,” I tell myself every time I open my gallery. That later never came. Later, it is buried under 3,000 images of literally nothing.
Cloud Storage Full. Brain Also Full
There’s a special kind of humiliation in being told by a machine that you’ve run out of space. Not metaphorically — literally. I wake up to a notification from my cloud storage, kind of like a concerned friend saying, “Hey, maybe stop.” I ignore it. Of course I do.
Because deleting files means deciding what matters. And deciding what matters is exhausting when everything feels vaguely important and deeply overwhelming. Digital clutter is just emotional clutter with, well, better Wi-Fi.
The Lie We Tell Ourselves
The lie is short and sweet: I just might end up needing this someday. Someday is a magical land, far away, where we are more competent, more prepared, and suddenly interested in a tweet from before we were born. Someday is where unread emails go to justify their existence.
But someday never opens your inbox at 2 a.m., heart racing, scrolling past reminders of jobs you didn’t get, subscriptions you forgot to cancel, and an interview appointment you missed in 2019. Someday doesn’t feel the guilt. Both of us do.
A Confession
I don’t keep emails because I’m busy. I keep them because deleting feels like admitting I dropped something — an opportunity, a responsibility, a version of myself who was supposed to follow up. Unread emails are tiny unfinished conversations with my past. And maybe I’m afraid that if I delete them, I’ll have to face how many things I didn’t become, how many things I left midway. Okay damn, wow. That got dark.
I Still Haven’t Pressed Delete All
This essay is not a redemption arc. I now have 11,790 unread emails. The button is still there, judging me more than my neighbourhood aunty. Maybe one day I’ll press it. Maybe I’ll feel lighter. Maybe I’ll finally achieve Inbox Zero, emotional clarity, and inner peace. Or maybe I’ll just end up signing up for another newsletter tomorrow.
Inbox Zero Is a Personality Trait (Apparently)
There’s a specific type of person who proudly announces they have Inbox Zero. They say it casually, like it’s a dietary preference. “Oh, I don’t keep unread emails,” they’ll gloat. Between the two of us, I don’t trust these people. Inbox Zero is not organisation — it’s emotional detachment. It’s the ability to look at an email titled “Following Up One Last Time” and feel nothing. No guilt. No curiosity. No phantom responsibility crawling up your spine. Just pressing the delete button and going on about your day
But I also happen to envy them deeply. Because when I see an unread email, I don’t just see the text. I see an obligation. I see a version of myself who was supposed to reply, apply, confirm, attend, cancel, or become someone slightly more put-together than I am now. Each unread email is a tiny unfinished sentence in the autobiography of my failure to be prompt.
The Archaeology of My Inbox
My inbox remembers things I’ve worked very hard to forget. Deleting an email isn’t just deleting information — it’s erasing evidence that I once cared enough to open a tab, type my email address, and believe something might come of it. This is archiving hope.
It’s not as if I’ve never tried. I have attempted inbox cleansing rituals. I’ve filtered. I’ve categorised. I’ve created folders with ambitious names like Important, Later, and Read When I Have My Life Together. That last folder is particularly crowded for some odd reason. I unsubscribed from newsletters I knew I was never going to read. I felt powerful. I felt in control. I slept peacefully. Then I checked my inbox the next morning, and BOOM — 15 new emails. (I had to stop myself from throwing my phone at the wall.)
The Fear Beneath the Fear
Here’s the part we don’t like to admit: this isn’t about emails. Well, not just about them. It’s about choice. Deleting means deciding. Deciding means accepting consequences. And consequences mean acknowledging that some doors are closed — not because we didn’t see them, but because we didn’t walk through them in time. Unread emails allow me to live in a state of permanent maybe. Maybe I’ll reply. Maybe it’ll still matter. Maybe I haven’t failed yet. Inbox Zero would make everything final. And finality is terrifying.
Dear Reader, You’re Thinking About Your Inbox Right Now
Don’t deny it. You’re wondering how many unread emails you have. You might even be mentally making excuses, like us: work, school, life. Don’t worry, I get it. This isn’t a judgment. This is a support group disguised as an article. We are the people who keep screenshots “just in case”. We are the people who leave tabs open as emotional bookmarks. We are the people who believe forgetting something is worse than being overwhelmed by everything.
A Non-Resolution
I wish I could end this with a triumphant purge. I wish I could tell you I pressed Delete All, closed my laptop, and walked into the sunset lighter and reborn. But I didn’t. My cloud storage is still full. My screenshots still wait patiently to be important. But maybe awareness counts for something. Maybe recognising the absurdity of being haunted by a 2017 candle sale email is a small step toward mercy — for ourselves, if not our inboxes.
For now, I coexist with my digital ruins. It stares at me. I stare back. And somewhere, amidst the unread emails and unfulfilled ambitions, life continues. Like it always does. It’s messy, unfinished, and still stubbornly worth opening.