I tried minimalism for a year. Not the extreme kind where you own exactly 100 items and sleep on the floor. Just a conscious effort to own less, buy less, and think more carefully about what I let into my life.
Here’s what happened, what I learned, and why I ultimately settled somewhere in the middle.
How It Started
The catalyst was a move. I was packing up my apartment and realized I was wrapping and boxing things I hadn’t touched in years. Kitchen gadgets still in their original packaging. Clothes with tags still on. Books I swore I’d read but never opened.
Moving is expensive. I was literally paying to transport things I didn’t use, didn’t need, and had mostly forgotten I owned.
So I got ruthless. Instead of packing everything, I sorted everything into keep, donate, and trash. The donate pile was embarrassingly large. The trash pile was worse.
By the time I finished, I’d gotten rid of roughly half my possessions. And here’s the thing: I didn’t miss any of it.
The Initial High
The first few months of owning less felt amazing. My new apartment was cleaner, calmer, easier to maintain. I knew where everything was because I didn’t have excess stuff hiding what I actually used.
Decision fatigue decreased. Fewer clothes meant less time deciding what to wear. Fewer kitchen tools meant less rummaging through drawers.
I also stopped impulse buying almost entirely. Not because I had superhuman willpower, but because I’d become hyper-aware of what I already owned. The idea of adding more stuff felt almost physically uncomfortable.
What Minimalism Got Right
A year into this experiment, some changes stuck permanently:
Quality over quantity actually works. I used to buy cheap things that needed replacing constantly. Now I buy fewer, better things that last. Counterintuitively, I probably spend less money overall.
Maintenance is underrated. When you own less, you can actually take care of what you have. Clothes get properly washed and stored. Tools stay organized. Things last longer.
Clear space creates clear thinking. This sounds like something from a meditation app, but I found it to be genuinely true. A cluttered environment made me feel scattered. A minimal environment helped me focus.
Most stuff is just future trash. Once you internalize this, your relationship with shopping changes. Every purchase is a future disposal problem. Worth considering before clicking “buy.”
What Minimalism Got Wrong
But the minimalism gospel has some flaws too:
The “spark joy” test doesn’t work for everything. My plunger doesn’t spark joy. Neither do my tax documents or my first aid kit. Some things you need regardless of how they make you feel.
Minimalism can become its own form of consumerism. There’s an irony in buying new, sleek, minimal versions of things you already own. The minimalist aesthetic gets marketed just like any other lifestyle.
It can be privileged to own less. It’s easy to have fewer things when you can easily replace them if needed. True minimalism is a luxury—you can get rid of your camping gear because you could always buy new gear if you decide to go camping.
Sentimental items have value. The hardcore minimalist advice is to photograph sentimental items and get rid of them. I tried this. It felt wrong. Some things are worth keeping even if they’re “just” emotionally valuable.
Where I Landed
After a year of being fairly strict, I’ve settled into a more relaxed approach. Call it “mindful ownership” or “minimalism lite” or whatever sounds least annoying to you.
The core principle I kept: be intentional about what you own. Don’t accumulate by default. Make active choices about what you let into your space.
But I gave myself permission to own things that bring me happiness even if they’re not strictly necessary. Books I love. Art that makes me smile. Kitchen tools that make cooking more fun.
The goal isn’t to own as little as possible. The goal is to own things that add value to my life and nothing that doesn’t.
Practical Takeaways
If you’re curious about owning less but don’t want to go full minimalist, here’s what I’d suggest:
Start with one category. Don’t try to declutter everything at once. Pick one area—your closet, your kitchen, your bathroom—and focus there. Success builds momentum.
Use the box method. Put questionable items in a box with a date. If you don’t need anything from the box in six months, donate it without opening it.
Apply the one-in-one-out rule. For every new item that enters your home, one similar item leaves. This prevents gradual accumulation.
Question gifts and free stuff. Just because something is free doesn’t mean it’s worth owning. Conference swag, promotional items, gifts you don’t want—it’s okay to decline or donate immediately.
Don’t aspire to someone else’s minimalism. The person with 50 possessions who fits their life into a backpack has different needs than you. Design your own relationship with stuff.
The Ongoing Practice
Minimalism isn’t something you achieve once and you’re done. Stuff accumulates constantly through gifts, purchases, random acquisition. Staying mindful requires ongoing effort.
I do a small declutter every few months. Nothing dramatic—just a sweep through each room asking “do I still use this? do I still want this?” It keeps the baseline manageable.
I also maintain a wishlist of things I think I want. If something’s still on the list after a few weeks, it might be worth buying. If I’ve forgotten about it, I didn’t really want it that badly.
The result is a home that feels like mine, filled with things I’ve intentionally chosen. Not perfectly minimal. Not cluttered. Just right for me.
That’s probably the only standard that matters.