The Year My Life Got Small

The Year My Life Got Small

by[Saeedullah]

It started with a box.

A simple cardboard one, the kind used to carry groceries or hide old tax forms. I was supposed to be packing up my apartment for a move “just across town,” but once I started, the momentum grew. First a drawer, then a closet. Before I knew it, the floor was covered with decisions I didn’t know I’d been putting off for years.

What do you take when you're no longer trying to impress anyone?

That was the real question, buried under all the “keep” and “donate” piles.

My lease was ending. The job I’d clung to like a raft had quietly disappeared in the third wave of layoffs. My relationship of three years had ended just before that, with no dramatic ending—just a long, soft unraveling. When people asked how I was doing, I smiled and said, “Adjusting.” The truth was harder to define. I wasn’t falling apart. I wasn’t thriving. I was just… shrinking.

In the literal sense, yes. I was moving into a 400-square-foot studio above a bookstore. No dishwasher, no laundry, no space for guests. But something about the smallness felt comforting. Like the world had grown too loud and this was a place I could hear myself again.

For the first time in years, my calendar was mostly empty. I stopped forcing myself to go to networking events I hated, or brunches where everyone pretended their lives were curated highlight reels. I took long walks without checking my steps. I read books I didn’t post about. I deleted social media—not out of some bold rebellion, but because I simply didn’t want the noise anymore.

Life got quieter. Smaller.

But also… softer.

I started keeping only what I used. A pot, a pan, three mugs. Two towels. My favorite sweater and the jeans that actually fit. Every item I owned had a purpose or a story. Nothing stayed just because I was afraid to let it go. Letting go became the theme of that year.

I let go of old ambitions that no longer lit me up. I let go of the idea that success had to be visible to count. I let go of friendships that had become more obligation than joy.

The strange thing is—I began to feel full in ways I never had when my life looked bigger.

With fewer distractions, I noticed the taste of my coffee again. I heard birds in the morning. I wrote in my journal without editing myself. I cooked meals that took time. I learned the names of my neighbors, all of whom had stories worth hearing. I listened to my body instead of pushing it.

I didn’t become some ultra-zen minimalist who never checked email. I still cried on the bathroom floor sometimes. I still missed the idea of love, even if I wasn’t sure what kind anymore. But the quiet gave me room to breathe.

There was one day in particular I remember—a cold morning in November. I sat on the little balcony with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and a chipped mug of tea in my hands. I watched the city wake up below me: a woman walking her dog, someone unlocking the bookstore downstairs, steam rising from street grates.

And for a moment, I felt… peaceful.

Not euphoric. Not triumphant. Just peaceful. Present. Like I had finally stopped running.

I used to think life had to be big to matter. Big goals, big salary, big apartment, big personality. But I learned that year that meaning often lives in the small things—the ones you almost overlook.

The year my life got small, I found space inside myself I didn’t know existed.

I’m not sure I ever want to go back to “big.” Not if it means losing this.