I recently took a giant leap: I gave away or sold nearly everything I owned.
The idea was to pare down, break free of clutter, and regain a sense of mental clarity.
Strangely, instead of feeling light and unburdened, I mostly feel… odd. It’s a mixture of relief and a weird sort of emptiness I didn’t anticipate.
From the outside looking in, it might sound like I finally found the secret to minimalism and mental space, but the real experience is more complicated.
For context, I’ve always been drawn to the psychology behind our everyday decisions. Before I transitioned into full-time writing, I spent about a decade in digital marketing, watching consumer trends and behavior from behind the scenes.
Back then, it seemed everyone was in a buying frenzy—myself included. I’m no stranger to the rush of hitting “add to cart” or the thrill of unboxing shiny new tech.
But something shifted for me recently, and I felt this overwhelming urge to start fresh. So, I did exactly that.
Now, with almost all of my belongings gone, I’m wrestling with both the freedom and the strangeness of it all.
Here at DM News, we love to explore how psychological forces drive us toward certain lifestyle choices, so let’s dive in.
The unexpected heaviness of owning less
Isn’t minimalism supposed to be freeing? For years, I read that getting rid of possessions brings a sense of calm, mental clarity, and even a noticeable boost to creativity.
The theory goes that when we have fewer things, we have fewer distractions.
But as soon as I donated and sold off items—even clothes I hadn’t worn in years—there was a rush of regret.
Memories flooded back: the coffee table where I’d scribbled my first book outline, the stack of marketing textbooks I kept for “reference” but rarely opened.
I was struck by how emotionally tied I was to objects. Part of me wondered: is it the stuff I miss or the life chapters these items represent?
Psychologist Dr. Russell Belk famously wrote, “We cannot hope to understand consumer behavior without first gaining some understanding of the meanings that possessions have for individuals.”
That idea hit home. It wasn’t the belongings themselves, but the embedded memories—both good and bad.
On one hand, I feel a layer of anxiety has been peeled away now that I’m not constantly deciding what to wear or which gadget to use. My closet is bare-bones; my desk is just a laptop and a lamp.
On the other hand, I’m standing in an echoey apartment with fewer visual cues about who I am and where I’ve been.
It’s like I cleared my mental tabs, but also wiped away the comforting noise that told my story.
Why it feels so strange to let go
A big part of why this feels off has to do with how we’re raised to find meaning in material milestones.
Think about it: from a young age, we’re often praised for the “things” we have—a new pair of shoes, a collector’s edition gadget, or even a first car.
These items can become signposts for our identities.
I’ve mentioned this before, but consumer psychology points out that our possessions can serve as external markers of who we think we are.
Even the most mundane items can carry emotional weight because they remind us of important relationships or achievements.
So, letting go of everything at once can feel like you’re erasing these identity markers, which creates an identity vacuum.
To make matters more perplexing, we live in a culture that rewards accumulation. Whether it’s hoarding “likes” on social media or upgrading to the latest smartphone, there’s an underlying assumption that more is better.
I thought ditching that script would feel like a triumph. Instead, I’m learning there’s a second wave of adaptation—one that asks me, “Now that you’re not defined by these objects, who are you?”
Finding balance in the weirdness
I’ve discovered that owning less doesn’t automatically flip a switch to zen-like calm. There’s a mourning process I didn’t expect.
It’s a bit like shedding an old skin: you feel exposed, but also new.
So, where’s the balance? For one, I’ve tried to remind myself that feeling disoriented is normal.
This is a significant shift in lifestyle—of course it’s going to rattle me.
Recently, I stumbled upon a quote by author Fumio Sasaki, who wrote extensively about minimalism in Japan:
“By acknowledging our attachment to these things, we can learn something about ourselves.”
That resonated. My awkwardness is part of the learning curve, revealing the hidden layers of meaning I attached to stuff I didn’t even use much.
I’ve also made a point of redirecting any lingering nostalgia into new experiences.
Instead of focusing on the coffee table I gave away, I remind myself that writing happens in my mind and can occur just as easily at a simple desk or a cafe.
Owning less can, theoretically, free up mental and physical space to explore new hobbies or deepen relationships.
I had to reframe my perspective: every time I catch myself missing an old object, I ask, “What value did it bring me, and how might I find that value in a new, non-material way?”
True enough, I’ve replaced some of the physical “stuff” with intangible experiences, like trying new coffee shops along the coast—one of my favorite weekend rituals.
Those outings are creating new memories, minus the burden of lugging more items into my home.
Redefining freedom
At the end of the day, I haven’t quite found the Hollywood version of minimalism bliss—where I stare at a spotless living room and feel nothing but peace.
What I have discovered is a less obvious form of freedom. It’s not so much a constant “high” as it is a reminder that I can reimagine my relationship with possessions whenever I want.
That sense of agency can be empowering. I realize that letting go doesn’t erase my past; it just prompts me to be more intentional about the present.
In behavioral psychology, there’s a term known as “loss aversion,” which basically states that we fear losses more than we value equivalent gains.
If I’d known how acutely I’d feel the loss, I might not have gone through with this purge.
Yet, through the discomfort, there’s a clarity emerging: I’m learning that owning less doesn’t mean I’m “less.” It means I’m reevaluating what’s worth keeping—both physically and mentally.
Minimalism is often sold as the silver bullet for a cluttered life, but the reality is more nuanced.
Yes, you might experience liberation, but don’t underestimate the strangeness of dismantling your material identity.
It’s a weird place to be, and that’s okay. Growth often feels weird before it feels good.
Putting it all together
I wish I could say I’ve reached a final, definitive verdict on whether everyone should downsize. But honestly, I’m still in the midst of processing.
For some, a massive purge might be transformative. For others, a more gradual approach—like giving up one category of items at a time—might be more comfortable.
Here’s what I do know: let yourself feel the strangeness. It’s part of the journey.
Acknowledge the memories tied to your things, and be honest about which ones you really need to keep. There’s no shame in holding on to what brings real value or joy.
At the same time, recognize that shedding layers of consumer baggage can create room—literal and mental—for new experiences.
Would I do it again? Probably yes, but maybe with better planning. Maybe I’d keep a few more key sentimental items or pace myself better.
Still, I don’t regret the experiment. It’s revealing truths about my own attachments, habits, and insecurities that I might not have confronted otherwise.
If you’re flirting with the idea of a major purge, just know it might not be the immediate endorphin rush the internet sometimes portrays. It can be liberating, and it can also be downright odd.
Both of those emotions can coexist—there’s no reason to deny one or the other.
Real change often hovers in that uncomfortable gray area, and as I’ve learned, living in that space for a bit can be surprisingly enlightening.
I’m not sure how this journey will evolve for me. Maybe I’ll restock some essentials. Maybe I’ll double down on having even fewer possessions.
Either way, the experience has made me more aware of how I form attachments—and that awareness, in itself, feels like a valuable takeaway.
At the end of the day, our stuff doesn’t define us, but it certainly shapes how we see ourselves.
Learning how to navigate that line might be one of the most practical self-development lessons I’ve stumbled upon yet.
