How I learned to live with less and why I have never been happier doing so

About three years ago, I stood in my walk-in closet, staring at 47 pairs of shoes I never wore.

It was a Saturday morning, and I'd planned to reorganize. Instead, I found myself paralyzed by the sheer volume of stuff surrounding me. Clothes with tags still on. Gadgets I'd forgotten I owned. Books I'd bought but never cracked open.

That's when it hit me: I wasn't organizing my belongings—I was managing my anxiety about having too much.

The wake-up call wasn't dramatic. No life-changing event or financial crisis forced my hand. It was quieter than that. I simply realized that all this stuff—the things I thought would make me happier—was doing the opposite.

The hidden cost of having more

For years, I operated under the assumption that accumulating things equaled progress. Better job? Bigger apartment. Promotion? Nicer car. Good month? Shopping spree.

Research has established that carrying financial debt and loans is associated with increased psychological stress and declining mental health outcomes. But here's what nobody talks about: stuff has a psychological overhead.

Every item you own requires mental bandwidth. You have to decide where to put it, when to use it, whether to keep it. You have to clean around it, insure it, worry about losing it. 

My weekends were consumed by maintenance. Organizing closets, cleaning surfaces, managing subscriptions I'd forgotten about. I felt productive, but I wasn't actually living.

What "enough" actually looks like

The shift started when I asked myself a simple question: What do I actually use?

Not what I might use someday. Not what looked good in the store. What did I reach for, day after day, without thinking about it?

The answer was surprisingly small.

I wore the same seven outfits on rotation. I cooked with three pans and five ingredients most nights. I read one book at a time and listened to the same playlist for months.

This wasn't deprivation—it was clarity.

When you strip away the excess, you start to see what you genuinely value. And for me, it wasn't the 40 unused pairs of shoes or the kitchen gadget graveyard in my cabinets.

The art of saying no (to stuff)

Warren Buffett famously said, "The difference between successful people and really successful people is that really successful people say no to almost everything".

I think this applies to purchases just as much as opportunities.

I started treating every potential buy as a question: Will this add genuine value to my life, or am I just filling a void?

Most of the time, I was filling a void.

The fancy coffee maker wasn't going to make me a morning person. The expensive workout gear wasn't going to make me consistent at the gym. The designer handbag wasn't going to make me feel more confident.

Learning to say no became a skill. And like any skill, it got easier with practice.

What I gained by losing the excess

Here's the part that surprised me: 'minimalism' isn't about deprivation. It's about abundance.

When I cleared out my closet, getting dressed became effortless. When I pared down my kitchen, cooking became more creative. When I donated books I'd never read, I finally had space to enjoy the ones I loved.

But the biggest change wasn't physical—it was mental.

Without the constant low-level stress of managing excess stuff, I had bandwidth for things that actually mattered. I started taking longer walks. I called friends more often. I picked up gardening, something I'd always wanted to try but never had the mental energy for.

The ripple effects I didn't expect

Living with less changed more than my living space—it changed how I moved through the world.

Shopping became intentional rather than recreational. I stopped buying things out of boredom or stress. When I did purchase something, it was because I had a specific need and had researched exactly what would meet it.

My finances improved dramatically. Not just because I was spending less, but because I was spending better. Quality over quantity became my default mode.

I also became a better gift-giver. Instead of buying people more stuff, I started giving experiences or making things myself. Trail mix from my garden. A playlist. A handwritten note.

These gifts meant more to both of us.

What minimalism isn't

Let me be clear: this isn't about living in an empty white box or counting possessions.

I still have things I love. Beautiful mugs that make my morning coffee feel special. Books that have shaped how I think. Photos that remind me of people and places I care about.

The difference is intentionality. Everything I own serves a purpose or brings me joy. Often both.

This also isn't about judgment. My version of "enough" isn't the right amount for everyone. A friend of mine is a painter—she needs more art supplies than I do. Another friend has three kids—her house is going to look different than mine.

The goal isn't to own the least. It's to own what serves you.

Where I am now

My closet still has shoes in it. Just not 47 pairs.

My kitchen still has gadgets. Just the ones I actually use.

My bookshelves still have books. Just the ones that matter to me.

And you know what? I've never felt like I'm missing anything.

In fact, I feel like I have more. More time. More space. More clarity about what I value.

More happiness, too. Not the fleeting kind that comes from buying something new, but the steady kind that comes from knowing you have enough.

Living with less taught me that happiness isn't about addition—it's about subtraction. It's about removing the excess so you can see what was always there: a life that already contains everything you need.