I used to shop to feel better about myself. Learning to live with less gave me more than I expected

For years, I had a bad habit of wandering into stores “just to look” whenever I felt stressed or restless.

It didn’t matter if I was in a department store, a grocery aisle, or an online marketplace at midnight—I’d scroll, browse, and convince myself I “needed” something new.

The funny thing is, I rarely remembered the purchases a few weeks later. What stuck with me was the slow build-up of clutter, the dent in my bank account, and that quiet feeling that I was always chasing something I couldn’t quite catch.

When I finally began simplifying—paring down what I bought, what I owned, and how I consumed—it started as a budget experiment.

I didn’t expect it to change how I felt about myself, my surroundings, and my place in the world.

But it did.

How emotional spending keeps us stuck

Emotional spending is sneakier than it sounds. You don’t have to be splurging on luxury handbags or designer sneakers for it to count.

For me, it was small, seemingly harmless purchases: a new ceramic mug when I already had ten, another canvas tote because it was “cute,” specialty snacks I didn’t really need.

According to research from the Journal of Consumer Psychology, people often shop to regulate their emotions—whether it’s boredom, stress, or even fleeting excitement.

For me, the short-term dopamine hit felt good, but it didn't really address the underlying need.

I started to notice how often I turned to shopping when I wanted to avoid discomfort. If I was stressed about work, I’d “treat” myself with a purchase. If I was feeling disconnected from friends, I’d buy something new to “refresh” my space.

The irony? The more I bought, the more I felt weighed down—both literally and mentally. I was surrounding myself with things but not actually improving my quality of life.

That’s when I decided to test a different approach: intentionally living with less.

Starting small: awareness before action

When I first committed to buying less, it wasn’t glamorous. I didn’t post about it or make it a formal challenge. I simply started paying attention.

I walked through my apartment with a notebook and made quick tallies of what I owned—mugs, jackets, reusable shopping bags, jeans.

It was humbling to see the numbers, especially as someone who thought of herself as “reasonable” with shopping.

This step alone was powerful. According to the United Nations Environment Programme, overconsumption—not just production—is a major driver of climate change. Just noticing what we already have can disrupt the reflex to buy more.

From there, I built in a pause between wanting something and buying it. I asked myself three questions:

1. Do I already have something that serves the same purpose? 
2. Will I still value this in six months? 
3. Can I find it secondhand or sustainably made? 

Sometimes I still bought the thing—but it became a conscious decision, not a knee-jerk reaction.

How minimalism reshaped my plant-based lifestyle

Once I started buying less in general, it naturally extended into how I approached food.

Before, I’d often buy novelty vegan snacks just because they were trending online. I told myself I was “supporting innovation,” but really, I was just chasing variety for the sake of it.

When I slowed down, I focused on staples I knew I’d finish: oats, beans, seasonal produce. It cut down on food waste and it made me a more mindful cook.

I also started shopping more at farmers markets. Smaller hauls, fresher ingredients, less packaging. Talking with growers gave me a better sense of seasonality, and I began planning meals around what was available rather than what was being promoted in a glossy ad.

Minimalism also helped me let go of “stuff guilt.”

Early on, I felt uneasy about donating or selling items because I’d already spent money on them.

But I realized keeping something just because it cost money didn’t mean it was serving me now. The money was already gone—the question was whether the item was adding value today.

Knowing that someone else could use what I wasn’t using made it easier to let go. That shift in perspective spilled into other parts of my life—like how I chose experiences over products whenever I could.

Making “less” a way of life

Plenty of people try no-spend challenges or month-long decluttering sprints. They’re helpful for a reset, but lasting change comes from weaving intentionality into everyday habits.

For me, that meant doing regular “stuff audits” every few months, keeping a running list of needs vs. wants, and supporting small, sustainable businesses—but only when the purchase fit my actual lifestyle.

This approach made minimalism feel less like deprivation and more like freedom. I stopped relying on purchases to validate my mood. My self-worth was no longer tied to how “current” my wardrobe looked or whether my kitchen had the latest gadgets.

Instead, I invested more in things that truly enriched my life: a CSA subscription, a cooking class, the occasional splurge on a truly memorable plant-based dining experience.

The bigger picture mattered, too. According to the Ellen MacArthur Foundation, extending the life of clothes by just nine months can reduce their carbon footprint by 20–30%. Every time we repair, reuse, or simply buy less, we help slow the consumption cycle that’s heating the planet.

The unexpected payoff

Living with less freed up physical space, but it also cleared mental space.

I felt calmer in my home because everything had a place, a purpose, and a story.

I cooked more creatively because my pantry wasn’t cluttered with half-used products.

I found joy in taking better care of the few things I did own.

And maybe most importantly, I learned that the things we think we need to feel “enough” are often just distractions.

Living with less isn’t about restriction—it’s about making room for what matters most, both for ourselves and for the planet.