Every long holding has a middle. The beginning is easy to describe, because a decision was made and written down. The end is easy to describe, because by then it is a story. The middle is the part where nothing has been proved, the reasoning still sounds thin when said out loud, and the case for doing something else arrives every morning in a well-argued paragraph.
We have found that the middle is not survived by conviction. Conviction is a feeling, and feelings are exactly what the middle is designed to erode. What people actually hold on with is structure: a written reason for owning the thing, a written reason that would justify selling it, and a date on which both get read again. When those three exist on paper, the daily paragraph loses most of its power, because it is answering a question that was already asked and answered by someone calmer.
The other half of it is money that is not in the argument at all. A family that knows where the next three years of spending is coming from can afford to be bored by the middle. A family whose obligations are entangled with the same position cannot, and no amount of temperament will fix that — it is an arithmetic problem wearing a psychological costume.
So the counsel is unglamorous and it is mostly clerical. Write the reason down. Separate the money that has a date from the money that does not. Then agree, in advance, how rarely you are going to look.