After years of perfectly curated empty spaces and capsule wardrobes, a brutal realization during a friend's visit exposed the truth: my "intentional living" was just financial struggle dressed up in trendy philosophy.
For years, I convinced myself I was living this enlightened, minimalist lifestyle. Empty countertops, capsule wardrobe, the whole deal. But last month, while scrolling through my perfectly curated Instagram feed of neutral tones and negative space, something hit me like a ton of bricks: I wasn't a minimalist. I was just broke with a philosophy degree in denial.
The truth? My "intentional living" was mostly about not having the money to buy things. And once I admitted that to myself, everything started to shift.
1. The moment I realized my "simple living" had a price tag problem
It happened during a conversation with an old colleague from my finance days. She was visiting and admiring my sparse apartment, going on about how freeing it must be to live with so little. "I wish I could be more like you," she said, gesturing at my nearly empty living room.
I almost launched into my usual spiel about conscious consumption and finding joy in less. But something stopped me. Maybe it was seeing her designer bag that cost more than three months of my rent. Or maybe it was remembering how I'd eaten rice and beans for dinner four nights that week.
"Actually," I heard myself say, "I just can't afford to fill this place."
The silence that followed was deafening. But saying it out loud was like pulling off a Band-Aid I'd been wearing for six years.
When I left my six-figure finance job at 37 to pursue writing, I told everyone it was about following my passion. What I didn't mention was eating through my savings for two years, or the nights I lay awake calculating how many months I could survive on what was left. My minimalism wasn't a choice. It was survival dressed up in trendy vocabulary.
2. How I was using minimalism to hide financial anxiety
Have you ever noticed how much easier it is to say "I don't need that" than "I can't afford that"?
For me, minimalism became my shield against financial shame. When friends invited me to expensive restaurants, I'd talk about preferring simple, home-cooked meals. When they went shopping, I'd lecture about fast fashion and conscious consumption. All true points, sure. But underneath was the reality that my irregular writing income meant choosing between a new pair of jeans and next month's utilities.
The worst part? I was lying to myself too. I'd browse online stores for hours, filling carts I'd never check out, then closing the tab and telling myself I was practicing restraint. But it wasn't restraint. It was necessity wearing a mask.
Those student loans that haunted me until I was 35? They taught me to be resourceful. But somewhere along the way, I started confusing resourcefulness with righteousness. I wasn't better than my friends with their full closets and decorated homes. I was just operating with different constraints.
3. The expensive truth about "cheap" minimalism
Here's what nobody tells you about being broke but calling it minimalism: sometimes it costs more in the long run.
That one pair of shoes I owned? I wore them until they literally fell apart, then had to replace them at the worst possible financial moment. My "capsule wardrobe" meant doing laundry constantly, driving up my utility bills. And don't get me started on the mental energy I spent justifying every single purchase, turning a simple grocery run into an existential crisis.
Real minimalism, I discovered, is actually kind of expensive. Those high-quality, long-lasting items minimalist bloggers recommend? They require upfront investment. That perfectly organized pantry with matching glass containers? Not cheap. The ability to own just a few perfect things means you can afford to be picky.
Meanwhile, I was calling my thrift store finds "curated" and my empty walls "intentional." The cognitive dissonance was exhausting.
4. What happened when I stopped pretending
Something fascinating occurred when I finally admitted my financial reality: people were way more understanding than I expected.
Remember that colleague who visited? She called me a week later. "Thank you for being honest," she said. "I've been feeling terrible about my spending, and you made me realize we're all just doing our best with what we have."
Being honest about money, especially after years in finance where I was supposed to have it all figured out, felt like standing naked in Times Square. But it also freed me from the performance. I stopped spending energy on maintaining the minimalist facade and started focusing on what actually mattered: building a sustainable life as a writer.
I began saying "That's not in my budget right now" instead of "I'm trying to live more simply." Small change, massive relief.
5. Finding the balance between necessity and choice
Now, at 43, I'm in a different place. My writing income has stabilized somewhat, though it'll never match those corporate paychecks I walked away from. And you know what? I've kept some of my "minimalist" habits, but for different reasons.
I still have a small wardrobe, but now it's because I genuinely prefer it, not because I can't afford more. My apartment is still pretty sparse, but that's partly because I'd rather spend money on experiences like trail running gear or ingredients for a new vegan recipe I'm trying.
The difference is choice. When you're choosing simplicity from a place of stability rather than scarcity, it feels completely different. It's the difference between fasting and starving, between solitude and loneliness.
Some months are still tight. The feast-or-famine nature of freelance writing means I'll probably always have a complicated relationship with money. But at least now I'm honest about it.
6. The real minimalism no one talks about
True minimalism, I've learned, isn't about having less. It's about being intentional with what you have, whether that's a lot or a little.
It's about removing the excess noise in your life, and sometimes that noise is the constant pretense that you're choosing scarcity when it's actually choosing you. It's about minimizing the mental load of maintaining a false narrative.
These days, when someone compliments my "minimalist lifestyle," I'm more likely to laugh and say, "Well, it started as being broke, but I've grown to appreciate parts of it." The honesty feels better than any aesthetic ever could.
Final thoughts
If you're reading this and recognizing yourself in my story, know that you're not alone. So many of us are performing prosperity or philosophy when we're really just trying to make it through the month.
There's no shame in financial struggle, especially when you've made brave choices like leaving a stable job to pursue something meaningful. There's no shame in empty spaces that aren't yet filled by choice. And there's definitely no shame in admitting that your lifestyle isn't always as intentional as your Instagram makes it seem.
What changed when I got honest wasn't my bank account, at least not immediately. What changed was the weight I carried. Turns out, the heaviest thing I owned wasn't in my apartment at all. It was the story I was telling myself and everyone else.
These days, my minimalism is more honest. Some of it is still about money. Some of it is genuine preference. And all of it is okay.
Because real simplicity starts with being honest about where you are, not pretending to be somewhere else.
