My name is Sonja Kucharonok. I’m the founder of Cut the Clutter — and if you’ve ever experienced grief, change, or overwhelming transition, then in some way, we already understand each other. I was born and raised in Vancouver. I grew up watching people I love work hard, hold families together, and do the best they could with what they had.

My dad passed away when I was still so young, just before I turned 21. That loss shaped me in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. But then came another one — the big one. In 1988, my mother passed away from cancer.

I was left with her home. Her belongings. Her life in boxes. And I was grieving. No one prepares you for what it feels like to hold your mother’s sweater and smell her perfume…to find old cards she saved from you… to decide what stays and what goes when all you want is for none of it to have changed. That was the moment everything shifted for me. Because in the middle of my grief, I had to figure out what to do with a lifetime of someone else’s memories. Alone.

I learned then that clearing out a home isn’t just a task — it’s emotional labor.  And most people aren’t ready for it.

I was in a relationship for the better part of my life, and then it ended. It wasn’t quiet or simple. It was painful, and it shook everything I thought I knew about my future. You don’t share that much time and love with someone and come out the other side unchanged. It took time to pick up the pieces and figure out who I was without that relationship.

But through all of it — the loss, the rebuilding, the moments of starting over — I kept coming back to the same thing: helping people who feel overwhelmed by life’s stuff.

Because here’s what I know to be true:

When we lose someone, when we downsize, when we move on — we’re not just dealing with belongings. We’re dealing with love, memory, identity, and change.

I started Cut the Clutter because I wanted to be the person I didn’t have. Someone who shows up with empathy. Someone who understands that when a person says, “I just need help clearing out the garage,” what they might really be saying is, “I’m drowning.”

I don’t just walk into homes. I walk into people’s lives at a time when they feel raw, tired, confused, or heartbroken. And I treat their space — and their story — with the care it deserves.

I’ve laughed with my clients. I’ve cried with them. I’ve sat on floors going through photos, gently encouraging them through the process. I’ve heard stories of love, loss, regrets, and new beginnings.

And every time, I’m reminded that what I do is about so much more than stuff.

It’s about grace. Healing. Closure. And starting fresh.