“My Attempt at Minimalism Lasted 4 Hours”

board married a yoga studio. I was seduced by the idea after watching one too many YouTube videos titled “How I Got Rid of 97% of My Stuff and Found My Soul.”

I thought: Yes. This is it. This is what my life needs. Clean lines. Empty drawers. Serenity. Simplicity. I pictured myself waking up in a room with nothing but a mattress, a single potted plant, and a glass of water. Peaceful. Zen. Like a monk with WiFi.

So I declared it. “Today, I become a minimalist.”

My dog looked at me like, You? Really? And honestly, he had a point.

Still, I began with reckless optimism. I grabbed a trash bag and marched into my closet with the confidence of a woman who once watched a documentary about decluttering.

“Do I need this?” I asked aloud, holding up a sequined dress I wore once to a wedding three years ago. Of course not. In the bag. That’s how it started.

Then came the shoes. I had fifteen pairs of flats. Fifteen. Why? I don’t know. I wear sneakers every day like a responsible adult with foot problems. Into the bag they went.

Feeling unstoppable, I tackled my bookshelf. Now this was emotional territory. I stared at my dusty collection like a mother choosing which children to send to boarding school. “Have I read you?” I whispered to a hardcover that looked deeply ashamed. “No? Well, I’m sure someone else will love you.”

Into the bag.

Three bags later, I stood in the middle of my apartment feeling accomplished. Minimalism was working. My space looked airier. I could see my floor. I was basically a minimalist influencer. All I needed was a latte in a beige mug and a deep caption about “intention.”

Then I turned around.

The kitchen. The kitchen had escaped my purge.

Now, my kitchen is not fancy. But it somehow contained five spatulas, three blenders (yes, THREE), and two unopened jars of gourmet mustard I don’t remember buying. I stared at it all, horrified. “Who am I?” I muttered, holding a fondue set that still had the tags on it.

I went in with the same ruthless energy.

I tossed expired spices, mismatched mugs, and a mini waffle maker I swore I’d use “one day.” I even let go of the olive oil bottle that had a decorative leaf floating inside like a shipwreck. It was hard, but I was stronger now. I was living intentionally. I had taste. I had purpose.

And then I opened the junk drawer.

It’s the Bermuda Triangle of every home. Inside were batteries of unknown age, receipts from 2019, six pens that didn’t work, and a mysterious metal piece that probably holds the universe together. I couldn’t do it. Not yet. I gently closed the drawer and whispered, “Not today.”

Three hours in, I was sweaty, hungry, and questioning all my life choices. I sat on the floor surrounded by piles: donate, throw away, maybe keep, and what even IS this?

That’s when I saw it.

A tiny snow globe from a vacation I took as a teenager. Inside, a penguin waved at me. Literally. The snow inside was half gone, and it smelled vaguely of glue, but suddenly I was flooded with memories. Ice cream. Laughter. Sunburn. I clutched it to my chest and whispered, “You’re not going anywhere.”

It was the start of my downfall.

Suddenly, everything had meaning. That mug? A gift from a friend. The scarf? From a market in a city I barely remember. The fifth spatula? Okay, that one was still ridiculous. But the point is—I panicked. What if I needed these things again? What if I regretted this? What if one day I finally did host a fondue night?

I looked around at the chaos I had created. Minimalism? More like maxi-mess.

I dragged the bags of “donations” into the corner and sat on my now very empty couch. It didn’t feel peaceful. It felt…clinical. Like a waiting room with good lighting.

That’s when I realized something: minimalism isn’t about getting rid of everything. It’s about keeping what matters. And for me, that included penguin snow globes and books I hadn’t read but still liked to smell.

So I made peace with being a “moderate minimalist.” I put a few things back. Not everything. Just the stuff that sparked joy. (Shoutout to Marie Kondo for giving me permission to be sentimental.)

Four hours after declaring myself a minimalist, I declared something else: I am not built for a life with two shirts and a single fork. I like my weird mugs. I like my books. I like my mess—with boundaries.

Today, my home is not minimalist, but it is me-ist. It has space, but also soul. And yes, I kept one of the blenders. Don’t ask me why.

Minimalism may work for some. But for the rest of us—those who find joy in clutter, comfort in chaos, or meaning in objects that would make no sense to anyone else—it’s okay. You don’t have to throw away your past to live well in your present.

Just maybe…check the junk drawer once in a while.