How it works, and why.

Your unload is sorted and immediately forgotten. Nothing you write is stored on our servers, ever. Your archive, counters and parked items live only in your own browser, on your own device.

Your first full unload is free, no signup. After that there are three ways in: $5.99 a month cancelable in one click, $59 once for a year that doesn't renew itself, or $129 once as one of the founding 10,000. All three, side by side →

Three at once, on every plan: a phone, a laptop, and one more. If you lose a device or replace one, release it in your customer portal and the slot comes straight back. More on devices →

It's in the receipt we emailed you, and in your customer portal, which every receipt links to. If you can't find either, write to hello@letsunload.com from the address you bought with and we'll send it back within one business day. Where to look →

The app tells you gently about two weeks before, once, without a countdown. When the year closes, everything on your device stays exactly where it is, and only the sorting of new unloads pauses. A gifted year never turns itself into a subscription. The whole picture →

The lifetime of Let's Unload, not a promise about the years ahead of you. As long as we're running, founder access never expires and is never billed again. We're a small company, so we say plainly what happens if we ever had to stop. Read it in full →

No. It’s a short ritual for a crowded head, not therapy, medical care, or crisis support. That said, the sort is borrowed from a technique therapists use: cognitive defusion, from Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. You separate a thought from a feeling by naming it honestly — which is exactly what the sort does when it pulls a worry out of a task pile. We borrowed the idea. We are not the therapy. If something heavy comes up, the app will say so and point you to real people. In the US, call or text 988; anywhere, findahelpline.com lists local lines.

Because everything lives on your device, clearing browser data erases your archive and counters, and we can't recover them, because we never had them. That's the honest cost of the privacy promise. Your paid access is unaffected: paste the license key from your receipt to unlock again. If a fully wiped device still shows as holding a slot, release it in your customer portal and it frees immediately.

Yes. When you subscribe you get a key by email. That key is your way in, and it works on up to three of your own devices. Open Let's Unload on the new device, and when the unlock box appears, paste the same key. There's no username and no password to remember; just keep the key somewhere you'd find it, like your email or a notes app.

Not on its own, and that's a consequence of the promise: nothing you write is stored on our servers, so there's no copy of it anywhere to sync from. Each device keeps its own record. If you'd like them to match, use Save a copy at the bottom of "What you've let go", then Restore from saved copy on the other device. Restoring adds to what's already there. It never replaces it.

Yes. Inside the box there are two small icons: a camera and a paperclip. The camera takes a picture there and then, on a phone or a laptop. The paperclip attaches something you already have: a photo of a handwritten page, a screenshot of your calendar, a list on a whiteboard. Either way we read the words off it and sort them exactly as if you'd typed them.

One quiet thing worth trying: it doesn't only read writing. Point it at a room. A child who's overwhelmed by a messy bedroom can photograph it and get three small places to start, in their own order, with no one standing over them. A kitchen after a big bake, a car, a desk on a hard week: the same. It turns "clean this whole thing" into "just do these three."

The same as everything else here: it's read and immediately forgotten. The words come back to you sorted, and the picture is not stored with us, not filed, and not attached to you. There is no album of your photos on our side, because there is no album at all.

Because the corner of a photo often holds something you never meant to send: a bank letter on the desk, somebody else's name, a number on a form. Before anything leaves your device you draw a box around the part you actually mean, and everything outside it is grayed out and never sent. It's one extra tap, and it's the difference between handing us a photograph and handing us your choice of what's in it.

An AI model reads what you wrote and sorts it. Not a person. Nobody at Let's Unload reads your words, because your words never reach us in a form we keep. Your text is sent to be sorted, the result comes back to you, and it is forgotten on both ends. The AI is good at this and it is not perfect; if it files something oddly, trust yourself over it.

A broken streak produces guilt, and guilt is the feeling we exist to remove. Missing a day here costs you nothing at all.

Yes. They appear for your first five sessions, then quietly retire. You'll know the app by then, and this page is always here.

If you've turned on Reduce Motion on your phone or computer, Let's Unload honours it. The hammock won't draw itself, the breathing circle won't grow, and nothing will slide or fade. Everything still works and nothing is missing; it simply holds still. That's deliberate. You told your device you wanted less movement, and it isn't our place to overrule you. On an iPhone the setting lives in Settings → Accessibility → Motion.