It’s Time To Admit That Minimalism Isn’t The Answer We Think It Is

Growing up with a hoarder for a mother, the idea of minimalism always seemed attractive to me, perhaps for the wrong reasons, but the lifestyle of only owning two mugs, five t-shirts, one pair of shoes and a MacBook (it’s always a MacBook) was like a dream just out of reach.

When I moved out for university, I didn’t realize it at the time but I had brought a lot of stuff with me. Moving van type of a lot. When the realization finally kicked in that I had picked up some habits from my mother and was well on my way to creating a hoard of bits and things and stuff I hadn’t used in the last five years around me, I panicked.

I did an instant clear-out and declared to never have that much stuff again. Every couple of months or so, particularly when I felt stressed or overwhelmed about other parts of my life, my eyes would suddenly zone in like a hawk on the things around me. Any and all of it was in danger. All I had to do was look at a mug I hadn’t used in the past week and it was already walking itself to the charity shop.

Sometimes it was hard to throw some things away, but there was this persistent goal gnawing away at the back of my mind insisting this was part of my journey to the final form of minimalism. And when I looked around and still saw more than two mugs, five t-shirts, one pair of shoes and no aesthetically pleasing-looking MacBook, I felt like I was somehow failing.

I recently moved from the city to a quaint little town that just borders the countryside. I can see the hills and fields on my way to Tesco—it’s wonderful. But as my partner and I were unloading all of our boxes from the fourth, fifth, sixth trip in the car, I realized how much stuff I had accumulated over the years. I snapped back into deletion mode (am I part Cyberman?) and started frantically looking for a spare box to fill with things to give to charity.

I don’t know if it was the fact that this was our first ever house that we’d moved into and it has a fireplace (which doesn’t work but decoratively, she’s lovely) and it’s on a street with lots of families and we had to buy our own white goods and dining table, so this house really feels like ours, but suddenly I felt the need to throw my hands up in the air and say, you know what?

FUCK MINIMALISM.

I want to live in a home with bits and bobs and memories and trinkets and definitely more than two mugs. Because when you walk into a house with lots of photos on the walls, handmade plant pots, candle holders with no candles, flowers in vases, baskets filled with crafting materials, trinket dishes, a cute stuffed octopus that you can turn inside and make it have an angry face, it feels like a home. You’re experiencing this once-empty building’s warm personality.

I am still rightfully scared of becoming a hoarder, but I don’t think the answer is minimalism. I think it’s just finding a middle ground. I don’t want to have so much stuff I can barely move around my house but I also don’t want someone to mistake my home for a prison cell.

I’m coming to terms with liking having stuff. I’ll still do a Marie Kondo a couple of times a year, though.