Many call it “minimalism,” but what if some of those mindful habits are really just privilege disguised as simplicity?
There’s a fine line between simplicity and privilege.
Somewhere between the rise of “capsule wardrobes” and “decluttering challenges,” minimalism became more about identity than practicality. It started as a philosophy for intentional living, but for many, it’s turned into a kind of aesthetic performance.
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: a lot of what upper-middle-class folks now label as minimalism looks, from a working-class perspective, a whole lot like waste.
Minimalism can absolutely be powerful and freeing. But it depends on why you’re doing it. Are you simplifying your life to create mental space, or are you discarding things you could easily reuse because they clash with a curated lifestyle?
Let’s take a look at a few examples that expose the difference.
1) Throwing out things instead of fixing them
If you grew up working-class, you probably remember a household rule that went something like this: if it can be fixed, it’s not trash.
I can still picture my dad crouched over an old boombox, tools spread out, trying to bring it back to life. It wasn’t about being sentimental. It was about not wasting what still had potential.
Today, I see a different mindset. A toaster stops working once, and it’s immediately tossed. A chair wobbles, and it’s out on the curb by morning. People post online about “decluttering broken things” as if repair isn’t part of the process.
But real simplicity isn’t just about less stuff. It’s about more respect for the stuff you have. Fixing things teaches patience, skill, and gratitude, values minimalism was supposed to represent in the first place.
If we skip that part, we’re not simplifying life; we’re outsourcing responsibility.
2) Decluttering usable stuff “for peace of mind”
There’s a big difference between letting go of what no longer serves you and throwing out something that still works because it doesn’t fit your vibe anymore.
I once watched a video where someone threw away a perfectly good blender, saying, “I don’t make smoothies anymore. It clutters my counter.”
That’s not mindfulness. That’s wastefulness dressed as self-care.
Working-class families know that “peace of mind” doesn’t come from empty cupboards. It comes from knowing you’re prepared for what life throws at you. When money’s tight, that “extra” blender might become a gift for a cousin moving into their first apartment. That half-full bottle of shampoo still has value.
Decluttering is healthy when it’s about intentional use, not impulsive disposal.
The truth is, peace isn’t found in getting rid of everything. It’s in knowing why you keep what you keep.
3) Replacing cheap but functional items with expensive “sustainable” ones
This one’s tricky because it sounds responsible. Who doesn’t want to be sustainable?
But here’s what happens: people toss out their plastic containers to buy minimalist bamboo ones. They ditch last year’s stainless-steel bottle for a new “eco aesthetic” version. They call it “upgrading their minimalism,” but really, they’re just consuming differently.
I’ve done this before, swapped perfectly usable items for ones that “fit the look.” And later, I realized it wasn’t minimalism. It was marketing.
Working-class wisdom understands sustainability differently. It’s about longevity, not branding. You keep what works, you fix what breaks, and you reuse what you can.
If we’re buying more to look like we own less, we’ve lost the plot.
4) Getting rid of “extra” household items
Some people can’t stand clutter. I get it. I love a clean workspace. But when I see someone brag about throwing out all their “duplicates” like extra utensils, blankets, or cords, I can’t help but think about how working-class families handle that.
They don’t see “extras” as clutter. They see them as backup.
My grandmother had drawers of things most minimalist influencers would call “junk.” But when something broke, a remote, a radio, a hinge, she always had the part or tool to fix it.
Her home wasn’t chaotic. It was functional.
Minimalism often focuses on form. Working-class practicality focuses on function. There’s a quiet pride in being resourceful, in making something last, in keeping spares because you never know when you’ll need them.
If you can replace things easily, “extras” seem unnecessary. If you can’t, they’re essential.
5) Selling or donating family heirlooms
One of the biggest divides between aesthetic minimalism and generational modesty lies in how each treats sentimental things.
I once saw a minimalist blog where the writer sold her grandmother’s tea set, saying it “didn’t align with her style.”
That made my chest tighten a little. Because for working-class families, heirlooms aren’t decor. They’re history.
A cracked bowl might remind you of your mother’s Sunday dinners. A quilt might have been sewn from the clothes of loved ones long gone. These items aren’t clutter. They’re anchors.
Sure, not everything old has to be kept. But when you grow up where everything mattered, every plate, every photo, every saved letter, you learn that value isn’t always visible.
Minimalism that discards heritage in favor of aesthetic calm misses the emotional weight that makes homes feel alive.
6) Downsizing functional spaces for the aesthetic of “simple living”
There’s a romantic idea in upper-middle-class minimalism: the “tiny home dream.”
A perfectly curated small space with neutral tones, a few plants, and floor-to-ceiling light. It photographs beautifully. But for working-class people, “small living” has never been a choice. It’s just been reality.
I remember traveling through parts of Southeast Asia and visiting families who lived in single-room homes. They didn’t call it minimalism. They called it necessity. Every inch of space had purpose.
The difference is intention. Some people shrink their lives by choice, calling it freedom. Others spend their lives trying to expand their space, calling it progress.
Minimalism can absolutely create peace and focus, but we should acknowledge the privilege behind choosing smallness. Simplifying your environment is one thing. Romanticizing scarcity is another.
7) Treating convenience-based waste as “intentional living”
Modern minimalism often hides behind convenience. Single-use “eco” products, fancy refill stations, and individually packaged snacks, all designed to look simple and sustainable.
But working-class households have been reusing jars, containers, and grocery bags long before it became a movement. My mom used to store leftovers in old margarine tubs, the original “repurposing.”
Now, those same habits are rebranded as eco-chic.
It’s a strange paradox: the people with the most resources are often the least practiced at stretching them. Convenience gets mistaken for efficiency, and “less hassle” gets marketed as “living intentionally.”
The most mindful thing you can do isn’t to buy prettier minimal packaging. It’s to use what you already own until it’s truly done.
8) Throwing away leftovers because “I don’t eat reheated food”
This one really gets me.
I once stayed at a friend’s place after a dinner party. The next morning, she threw away trays of untouched food because she “didn’t like leftovers.”
That’s not minimalism. That’s privilege.
Working-class families have long mastered the art of transformation, turning yesterday’s meal into today’s lunch. My mother made leftover rice into fried rice, leftover stew into soup, stale bread into croutons. It wasn’t about being frugal. It was about respect.
There’s a quiet dignity in not wasting food. It acknowledges the effort that went into making it, the hours, ingredients, and energy.
Calling food waste “decluttering” or “simplifying” is just another way of masking detachment.
Mindfulness isn’t about discarding what’s no longer exciting. It’s about staying grateful for what still nourishes you.
The bottom line
Minimalism has its beauty and its blind spots.
At its core, it’s supposed to help us live with intention, not discard responsibility. It’s meant to shift our focus from things to meaning. But too often, it turns into performance, a clean aesthetic without the substance behind it.
Working-class values remind us of a deeper truth: simplicity isn’t about having less. It’s about valuing more. Repairing instead of replacing. Reusing instead of rebranding. Holding onto meaning even when it’s a little messy.
When you come from a background where every item carried weight, minimalism looks different. It’s not about empty spaces. It’s about full hearts.
Real minimalism isn’t about how little you own. It’s about how deeply you appreciate what you keep.
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