The art of owning less: A sustainable path to a richer life

For years, I tracked numbers. Revenue projections, quarterly earnings, compound interest rates.

And as a financial analyst, I believed that more was always better. More growth, more assets, more returns.

Then I spent three weeks backpacking through Southeast Asia with nothing but a 40-liter pack, and everything I thought I knew about value got turned upside down.

I remember standing in my hotel room in Chiang Mai, looking at the few shirts, one pair of trail runners, and minimal toiletries I'd been living with for two weeks. I felt lighter than I had in years. Not just physically, but mentally. There was a strange freedom in having less to worry about, less to maintain, less to carry.

When I returned home to my overstuffed closet and garage full of things I'd forgotten I owned, the contrast was jarring.

That's when I started asking myself a question that would fundamentally change how I lived: What if the path to a richer life wasn't about accumulating more, but about intentionally owning less?

The hidden cost of our stuff

We rarely calculate the true expense of our possessions. I'm not just talking about the price tag.

Every item you own demands something from you. It needs space in your home. It requires your attention when you're deciding what to wear, what to use, what to keep organized. It takes your time to clean, maintain, repair, or eventually dispose of. And it occupies mental real estate, even when you're not actively thinking about it.

During my years analyzing corporate balance sheets, I learned that every asset comes with carrying costs. The same principle applies to our personal lives, but we rarely think of it that way.

That treadmill gathering dust in your basement? It's not just a past impulse purchase. It's square footage you're paying for every month. It's a source of guilt every time you walk past it. It's a decision you'll eventually have to make about whether to keep it, sell it, or haul it away.

Multiply that across everything you own, and you begin to see why so many of us feel overwhelmed despite having more conveniences than any generation in history.

Why we keep buying things we don't need

Here's something I discovered when I started paying closer attention to my shopping habits: I rarely bought things because I actually needed them.

Sometimes I shopped because I was bored. Sometimes because I was stressed and needed a dopamine hit. Sometimes because I confused wanting something with needing it. And sometimes because I genuinely believed that the right product would finally make me the person I wanted to be.

The marketing industry has spent billions figuring out how to trigger these impulses. They've learned that we don't really want the things themselves. We want the feeling we think they'll give us. The status. The convenience. The version of ourselves we imagine having once we own that thing.

I spent a decade convincing myself that I needed the latest running gear to be a real trail runner. Then I met someone at a farmers' market where I volunteer who'd completed multiple ultramarathons in the same worn-out shoes and basic shorts she'd owned for five years. She didn't need fancy gear to be a runner. She just ran.

That realization hit hard. How much of what I owned was actually about function, and how much was about the story I wanted to tell about myself?

The environmental elephant in the room

Once I started embracing a minimalist lifestyle, the environmental implications became impossible to ignore.

Every product has a footprint. The raw materials extracted from the earth. The energy used in manufacturing. The emissions from shipping it halfway around the world. The packaging that ends up in a landfill. And eventually, the product itself, discarded when we move on to the next thing.

As someone who's vegan for ethical and environmental reasons, I was already conscious about my food choices. But I hadn't extended that same scrutiny to everything else I consumed. The cognitive dissonance was uncomfortable. How could I be thoughtful about eating plant-based while mindlessly accumulating possessions that damaged the planet just as surely?

The average American generates about 4.5 pounds of trash per day. Most of that is packaging and discarded products. When you own less and buy less, you automatically reduce your environmental impact. It's one of the most straightforward ways to live more sustainably.

I won't pretend I'm perfect. But striving to reduce my impact through conscious shopping has fundamentally changed my relationship with consumption. Before buying anything now, I ask myself if I truly need it, if it's made sustainably, and if I can find it secondhand. Most of the time, the answer is either no or wait.

What actually happens when you let go

I started small. One drawer at a time. One shelf. One closet.

With each item I removed from my home, I waited for the regret to hit. It rarely did. Instead, I felt something unexpected: relief.

The first major purge was my wardrobe. I got rid of probably 60% of my clothes and haven't missed a single item. Now I have a smaller collection of pieces I actually wear and feel good in. Getting dressed takes less time. Laundry is simpler. And I stopped that exhausting cycle of standing in front of a full closet feeling like I had nothing to wear.

Then I tackled my kitchen. Did I really need three different types of mixing bowls? Four cutting boards? That bread maker I used once? I kept what I actually used regularly and donated the rest. Cooking became less stressful because I wasn't constantly digging through cluttered cabinets.

Here's what nobody tells you about minimalism: it's not really about the stuff. It's about the mental space that opens up when you're not constantly managing, organizing, and thinking about your possessions.

I have more time for trail running because I spend less time shopping and organizing. I have more money for experiences because I'm not constantly buying things. I have more mental energy for creative projects because my environment isn't constantly demanding my attention.

The financial freedom nobody talks about

My background in financial analysis taught me to see patterns in numbers. When I started tracking my spending after returning from that trip, the pattern was embarrassing.

I was spending thousands of dollars a year on things I didn't need. Clothes I'd wear once. Kitchen gadgets that seemed essential until they sat unused. Books I'd never read when I had a perfectly good library card. Small purchases that seemed insignificant but added up to a car payment's worth of stuff every month.

When you own less, you buy less. And when you buy less, you need less money. That equation creates a kind of freedom that's hard to describe until you experience it.

I'm not talking about deprivation. I'm talking about redirecting resources toward what actually matters to you. For me, that meant building an emergency fund that let me quit my corporate job and pursue writing full-time. For you, it might mean different things. More travel. Earlier retirement. The ability to work less and spend more time with family.

But none of that is possible when you're stuck on a treadmill of earning money to buy things you don't need to impress people you don't like.

Starting where you are

You don't have to backpack through Asia or move into a tiny house to benefit from owning less.

Start by noticing what you actually use. Pay attention this week to which items you reach for and which ones you walk past without thinking about. That's data. Those ignored items are carrying costs you're paying for no return.

Try this: pick one small area. A junk drawer. The top of your dresser. Your car. Remove everything that doesn't serve a purpose or bring you genuine joy. Notice how it feels.

The goal isn't to own as few things as possible. It's to be intentional about what you keep and why you keep it. It's to make sure your possessions serve you, rather than the other way around.

Some things are absolutely worth keeping, even if you don't use them often. Family photos. That pottery wheel you use twice a year but love. The nice dishes you save for when friends come over. The key is consciousness. Choose what stays. Let go of what's just taking up space.

The richer life on the other side

A few years into this journey, my definition of richness has completely changed.

I used to measure it in terms of what I owned. Now I measure it in experiences, relationships, and freedom. The freedom to pursue work I care about. The freedom to spend my Saturday gardening instead of organizing closets. The freedom to not worry about storing, maintaining, and managing an ever-growing collection of possessions.

My home is simpler than it used to be. But it feels more spacious. My closet has fewer clothes, but I like everything in it. My kitchen has less stuff, but I cook more often because it's not overwhelming to find what I need.

I'm not suggesting that minimalism is the answer to all of life's problems. It's not. But it has been a sustainable path to a different kind of richness. One measured not by what I have, but by what I'm free to do and be.

And that, I've discovered, is a kind of wealth that no amount of shopping can buy.