I Attempted Minimalism and Gave Away My Favorite Hoodie (Instant Regret)

The beautiful, peaceful lifestyle where everything is neutral-toned, perfectly folded, and so free of clutter you can practically hear your home exhale.

I wanted that.

I wanted the calm, the clean lines, the effortless aesthetic of “I don’t own chaos anymore.”

Instead, I got emotional over a hoodie and spiraled into a 3-hour debate with myself over whether I needed three identical coffee mugs (spoiler: I kept all of them).

Let’s rewind.

The Minimalist Bug Bites

It all started after watching a documentary where a couple in perfect lighting said they only owned 37 items total—including cutlery. Their closets had three shirts and a plant. Their apartment looked like a showroom. Their smiles were suspiciously peaceful.

I wanted that serenity.

I wanted to walk into my room and not have to step over a tangle of laundry, cables, and three different phone chargers (all broken but emotionally significant).

So I said: “I’m doing it. I’m becoming a minimalist.”

Step 1: Declutter Like a Boss (Emotionally, a Mess)

I stood in front of my closet, fists clenched like a warrior about to go into battle. Marie Kondo whispered in my head: Does it spark joy?

First victim: an old hoodie. Faded, slightly stained, stretched out in weird places. Did it spark joy?

YES. IT SPARKED SO MUCH JOY.

It was the hoodie I wore when I was sad. Or sick. Or lazy. Or baking banana bread at 11 p.m. It had history. It had soul.

But minimalism whispered: Let it go.

So I did. I tossed it into the donation pile like a brave little toaster.

Then I sat down and stared at the pile for twenty minutes, wondering if I’d just given away a part of my identity.

Step 2: “I’m Not Attached to Stuff” (Yes I Am)

I moved on to my books.

This was a bad idea.

I picked up a novel I hadn’t read since 2014 and immediately remembered the exact emotion I had while reading chapter 8. I sniffed it (yes, I’m a book sniffer). I almost teared up. Not because it was particularly good—just because it reminded me of a very specific Tuesday.

Eventually, I created a new rule:

If it has a memory attached to it, it stays.

Which, unfortunately, included:

A mug with a chipped handle

A notebook I wrote one line in

A rock from a beach I can't name

By the end of the day, my “keep” pile was a mountain and my “donate” pile looked like a sad stack of socks.

Step 3: Kitchen Meltdown

Minimalists have clean countertops and exactly two forks.

Meanwhile, I have:

Three spatulas

Five whisks

A garlic press I used once and instantly hated

And a collection of takeout chopsticks from seven different restaurants

I tried to toss the garlic press. I held it up and said, “You have failed me.”

Then I kept it. For “just in case” emergencies.

At one point, I threw out a half-empty box of cereal I didn’t even like.

Fifteen minutes later, I dug it back out of the trash because I remembered there was a buy one, get one coupon inside.

This is not what the documentary people would do.

Step 4: The Living Room Shuffle

Ah, the living room. Home of the following mysterious items:

An unopened scented candle I’m “saving”

An old remote with no TV to go with it

A decorative pillow that offers zero actual comfort

I tried to make it look minimalist. I cleared the surfaces. I rearranged everything.

Then it looked so empty, I panicked and added back three random objects so it didn’t feel like I lived inside a dentist’s waiting room.

Minimalism is hard when you’re emotionally attached to throw blankets.

Step 5: Hoodie Regret, and the Great Rescue Mission

Three days into my minimalist makeover, I realized something horrible:

I missed the hoodie.

Like, really missed it.

None of my current sweaters gave me that lived-in comfort. They were either too fancy, too tight, or smelled like detergent commercials. That hoodie smelled like me.

So I did what any rational adult would do:

I went back to the donation center.

I stood in the doorway like a romantic lead in a cheesy movie. “I gave away something I wasn’t ready to lose,” I said dramatically. “Do you still have a gray hoodie with a coffee stain on the left sleeve?”

They stared at me like I’d just asked for a hug and a grilled cheese.

Turns out… they still had it. Folded in a bin marked “miscellaneous fleece.”

I hugged it. Not the bin—the hoodie. And yes, I cried a little.

Minimalism was canceled. Comfort won.

What I Learned From Trying (and Failing) to Go Minimalist

Minimalism is not one-size-fits-all.

If owning three pairs of black socks and one frying pan makes you feel good—great! If your joy lives inside a hoodie with memories and questionable stains—that’s okay too.

You don’t have to throw away things to simplify your life.

You can declutter your schedule, your digital life, or your brain without tossing the mug that says “World’s Okayest Human.”

Stuff can hold feelings—and that’s not a weakness.

It means you’ve lived. You’ve grown attached. You’ve spilled emotional soup on your hoodie, and that matters.

You can be intentional without being extreme.

Keep what you love. Ditch what you don’t. And never, ever give away something that’s wrapped in comfort, nostalgia, and just the right amount of fuzziness.

Would I Try Minimalism Again?

Maybe… in small doses.

Like “organized chaos.” Or “gentle decluttering.” Or “I own seven spatulas but I know where they are.”

Minimalism? More like Me-nimalism.

My version. My vibe. And my hoodie.