I remember it vividly…a golden San Francisco afternoon in 2015. As I prepared for my move to Seattle in pursuit of a better life, I stood in my old Victorian rental studio, bathed in the warm glow of sunlight streaming through the bay windows. Before me was an enormous closet, overflowing with belongings, so large it could have easily passed for a one-bedroom apartment in New York City. In that moment, surrounded by racks of beautiful clothing, shelves of shoes, stacks of books, and an array of carefully curated gadgets, I felt a deep sense of pride. These possessions weren’t just things; they were an extension of me, how I presented myself to the world, how I measured my success.
But as I began sorting through them, uncovering more behind, above, and below, a strange sensation took hold. My breath grew shallow. The room felt smaller. An unsuccessful attempt to calculate the hours of work traded for these items only tightened the grip around my chest. So many things, worn once or not at all, tags still attached. The weight of my belongings—both physical and psychological—became suffocating.
That was the moment everything shifted. That was the beginning of my journey into minimalism. And if you’re curious, when I finally moved to Seattle, I took less than a third of what I once owned. Along with it, I carried a newfound sense of clarity.
This essay is about how the things we own shape us and how letting go can redefine who we become along the journey. While much of it centers on material possessions, the same perspective extends to relationships as well. And here’s something to know from the start: minimalism isn’t a one-size-fits-all lifestyle. Each person defines it in their own way, and there is no final destination. It’s an ongoing journey—one of intention, discovery, and continuous evolution. In one word, of becoming.
The urge to own
The impulse to buy—to accumulate—is something I’ve wrestled with for years. It wasn’t just about acquiring things; it was about shaping who I thought I was, seeking validation, and finding a sense of belonging. Everywhere I turned, advertising, social media, and cultural expectations pushed the idea that what I owned defined me. Buying was no longer just a transaction—it was a declaration of identity, a bid for social acceptance, and, at times, a desperate grasp for self-worth.
But beneath the excitement of new purchases and the fleeting validation they bring, lied a deeper, more uncomfortable truth—one that challenged my autonomy, my emotional well-being, and my understanding of what truly fulfilled me. That validation never lasted. The thrill of a new purchase faded quickly, and the approval it garnered was only temporary. Before long, I needed another purchase to maintain that sense of worth.
I used to believe my possessions told my story. They all felt like extensions of myself, signals to the world of who I was and what I stood for. But on that sunny afternoon, I realized something startling: I had bought many of those outfits because I loved how they looked on a lifeless window mannequin, or because someone I admired wore them, and I believed—hoped—that by wearing the same, I could somehow become them. But I didn’t. I actually felt worse. Realizing this shattered me.
The illusion of success
Possessions act as proof, tangible evidence of success, of “I made it.” A new purchase isn’t just for personal enjoyment bur it’s rather something to be shared, displayed, and admired. That fleeting dopamine rush can become addictive, turning consumerism into a cycle of buying and showcasing, always chasing the next hit of external approval.
This isn’t a new phenomenon. Throughout history, possessions have signaled status and identity. But today, consumerism has become far more psychological, far more personal. Social media has amplified the connection between identity and ownership, feeding us curated lifestyles that subtly dictate what we should desire. Influencers and celebrities construct their online presence to showcase carefully designed aesthetics, shaping not just trends but aspirations. And whether we realize it or not, we absorb these messages, shaping our buying decisions around who we think we should be rather than who we truly are.
A bold and thought-provoking definition of minimalism is the ability to say, “I can live an authentic life without anything I own or anyone I know.” At first glance, this statement may seem extreme, perhaps even unsettling. After all, human connection and material stability are often seen as fundamental to a meaningful existence. But beneath its stark phrasing lies a deeper truth: minimalism is not just about reducing possessions and relations, but about cultivating a profound sense of self-sufficiency, freedom, and authenticity.
“Authenticity is not something we have or don’t have. It’s a practice—a conscious choice of how we want to live.” — Brené Brown
The fragile sense of belonging
Perhaps the most powerful and often subconscious reason we buy (at least in my case) is the need to belong.
Owning the right things can create a sense of belonging to a particular social circle. And brands know this. They don’t just sell products; they sell lifestyles, communities, a sense of identity. The underlying message is clear: buying isn’t just about ownership—it’s about being part of something bigger.
When our social inclusion is based on material goods, it becomes fragile and conditional. The pressure to keep up can lead to financial strain, anxiety, and a lingering sense of emptiness as we realize that possessions alone can’t fill the spaces we hoped they would.
From that moment in San Francisco on, I started questioning it all—the purchases, the validation, the pursuit of belonging through things. Did I really need all of it? Did any of it actually make me happier? Am I making these choices because they genuinely bring me joy, or because I’ve been conditioned to believe they should? If what I own defines me, then who am I without it? Slowly, I began letting go—not just of things, but of the illusions they carried.
The psychology of attachment
Attachment is deeply rooted in human psychology. We form emotional bonds not just with people, but also with objects, places, and even ideas. The things we surround ourselves with become more than just physical items; they carry meaning, nostalgia, and sometimes, a sense of purpose. A childhood toy may represent innocence, a family heirloom may hold the weight of ancestry, and a house may feel like a sanctuary of stability.
But attachment, when left unchecked, can also become a chain, keeping us tied to the past, fearful of loss, and anxious about the future. The more we define ourselves by what we own, the more we suffer when those things are taken away or fail to provide the fulfillment we expected.
This isn’t about rejecting ownership entirely. It’s about awareness.
The paradox of attachment is that the less we cling, the more we gain. When we let go of unnecessary possessions, we gain clarity. When we detach from material definitions of success, we gain purpose. When we release the need to control everything, we gain peace.
The lightness of letting go
Letting go does not mean discarding everything we own; it means shifting our relationship with possessions. Instead of clinging, we appreciate. Instead of defining ourselves by what we have, we embrace who we are without it.
The path to true freedom is not in what we hold onto, but in what we are willing to release. Let go, and watch as the weight lifts, revealing the lightness of being that was always there, waiting beneath the surface.
Minimalism, for me, has not been about deprivation but about clarity. About reclaiming autonomy over my choices. About finding fulfillment in experiences, relationships, and self-discovery rather than things.
The reward in this journey is an endless process of becoming. And that is the whole purpose of the journey.
In the end, I own nothing, but I experience everything, while it lasts. And perhaps, that is enough.
Here I go out to sea again
The sunshine fills my hair
And dreams hang in the air
Gulls in the sky and in my blue eye
You know it feels unfair
There’s magic everywhere
Look at me standing
Here on my own again
Up straight in the sunshine
No need to run and hide
It’s a wonderful, wonderful life— Colin Vearncombe (a.k.a. Black)
(the author’s all-time favorite song and video clip)