On stuff

Or, how I am learning to live with less

I moved this past weekend, and suffice it to say—it was eye-opening.

It took two full days and required the help of movers to shuttle my heavier items from the third floor of my building to the first. In the process, I burned close to 4,000 calories going up and down stairs—moving boxes, hanging pictures, and doing everything I could to make the new place feel lived-in by the end of it all.

And somewhere in the middle of that chaos, I had a realization:

I have a lot of stuff.

Stuff I haven’t used in years.

We tell ourselves, “I’ll definitely use this second Pyrex baking dish… someday.”

And of course, everyone needs two muffin tins, because no one ever just bakes 12 muffins—you always bake 24.

Part of the reason I probably have so much stuff stems from childhood.

Simply put—I grew up poor.

My parents were loving and kind, but we moved a lot.

Ask almost anyone who grew up in poverty and they’ll likely say the same: moves were usually last-minute, and things often got left behind.

So as I got older, owning things—things that were mine—became a quiet symbol of security, maybe even success.

“Here’s the art I bought in Haiti. Let me tell you about it.”

“Oh, you need a blanket? What color do you want?”

“Yes, that’s a great book. You should read it. And this one, too.”

In fact, one of the lesser-known perks of being in the military is that as you move up in rank, your allowed moving weight increases. It’s a recognition, on the part of the federal government, that as we grow through life, we accumulate more.

But what if that didn’t have to be the case?

What if every move was an invitation to own less?

To voluntarily choose to live with less.

To mindfully decide what’s essential—and what’s not.

So this past week, rather than moving up, I moved down.

Chuck Palahniuk once wrote, “The things you own end up owning you.”

And I owned a lot.

Honestly, it was a great apartment—one of the best I’ve ever lived in.

Big enough to host 20 friends.

Bright enough to bathe in both sunrise and sunset, with east and west-facing wings.

I’ll miss the way light would spill into the living room.

I’ll miss having space to host a party on a whim.

But the truth is, there were also things I never looked at.

Stuff tucked away in closets.

Unused, unappreciated.

Things I paid for month after month just to store, not to use.

Seneca wrote, “A thatched roof once covered free men; under marble and gold dwells slavery.”

The more we own, the more we owe—to those things.

They require our time, our energy, and yes—our finances.

If you’re in a similar season of change, there are so many ways to give your things a second life: local shelters, donation centers, Buy Nothing groups, or even friends and neighbors who might need what you’re ready to release.

During my move, I ran into Pastor Bob—an itinerant Baptist minister and longtime neighbor. With his trademark grin and laugh, he told me, “I’ve moved more times than I can count. And each time, I give away more and more.”

If, as Ryan Holiday writes, “freedom is autonomy,” then shouldn’t we be aiming for that?

Shouldn’t we be choosing to let go?

To live with less?

And in doing so, to more clearly see what really deserves our focus in this one, short life?