The Big Deal About Minimalism

It’s not as if minimalism is a new term, is it? I’ve seen and heard it since I was little, and I’m fascinated that it’s turned into a legitimate Movement over the past few years.

Search for it on Pinterest, and you’ll fall down a tidy little rabbit hole of life hacks and listicles and a whole lot of purging advice. You’ve probably heard some of the philosophy behind tiny houses too. (That living arrangement terrifies me, and I’m not even claustrophobic. No thanks.)

There’s even a duo of public speakers/podcasters who call themselves The Minimalists. Take a gander:

If you simply Google minimalism, it will connect the word to areas in history that are mostly art- and design-related. Music. Architecture. Language. Minimalism in 2018 is trying to define something much more intangible: lifestyle. It reaches beyond simple aesthetics or structure, all the way into mental and emotional clarity, financial health, and psychological balance.

Our current movement of minimalism shoulders its own creative history and asks us one thing: How can you best design your life?

Drawing Up Blueprints

My mom and I have this pattern. We talk fairly often, but about once every month or two, she’ll jump into a lull in our conversation to announce a gift: “OH — okay, I don’t think you have one of these, but I found these slick little silicone plate covers for when you microwave something, and I sent them to you yesterday so let me know what you think!” Kitchen appliances. Shoes. Beauty products. Cleaning tools. Knick-knacks. Essentials like a key-chain siren and a wall-mounted carbon monoxide detector. (She’s a pretty excellent mom.)

I make an effort to try these things out, but if I know I won’t use them — and this is no secret to my mom — I’ll donate them to a clothes/supply store so someone else can have their needs met.

My mom’s impulsive gift-giving habit isn’t just because I’m her only child — most adults I know who were born before 1980-ish are hard-pressed to get rid of very much. They were brought up by Boomers, in an era that was literally built on post-WWII prosperity, financial security, and excess. It makes perfect sense that their collective mindset is pick up an extra one and eh, I’ll keep it just in case.

I was born in ‘88, in the middle of a period of conspicuous consumption. I grew up being cautioned about the perils of credit cards, and in my young adulthood, I was extremely conscious of money. I do love being given things, but all of that generosity translates to extra stuff. I feel like my generation’s shift into experiences instead of purchases, into sharing and streaming instead of owning and stockpiling, is a direct reaction to our parents’ and grandparents’ mindsets. They may not be hoarders, but I get the impression they still strongly believe there’s security in quantity.

Starting Construction

Me, on the other hand… I live in a 550 square-foot studio apartment. I don’t have the luxury of keeping a back-stock of cleaning supplies or a massive shoe collection, nor do I want it. Minimalism isn’t something I chose because I had to be convinced of it as a trend or a solution. I worked it into my life because it makes sense. I’ve been skeptical about The Movement of it, though, and I wanted to wade into that pool and see what the temperature was like. So last summer, I KonMari’d my life.

If you’re unfamiliar with that verb, you probably haven’t read Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. It’s the tidying method that asks you to quite literally dump your possessions onto the floor in groups, pick each thing up, determine whether or not that thing sparks joy in you, and then sort that thing accordingly. It’s been featured on plenty of reading lists and home improvement blogs — it’s even been poked fun at in the 2016 revival of Gilmore Girls. Frankly, I picked the book up at Target because my initial reaction to it was, “This smells like bullshit.” And I’m nothing if not willing to challenge my snooty biases.

It’s hard to argue with results that are obvious and immediate: When you’re done, you’re surrounded by not only more space, but only the things that you love and use regularly.

The idea is sensible: Sort through your possessions one category at a time. Clothes. Books. Papers. Miscellaneous. Sentimental stuff. The latter is saved for last because it’s often the hardest stuff to purge; the preceding four groups give you the chance to hone your keep-or-toss skills before you face your old love letters or your Class of 2007 t-shirts. The whole process can take weeks if you live in a decent-sized house with a family and have a full-time job, so fair warning to those of you who’d like to give it a go.

Over the course of a week, I got rid of ten 13-gallon trash bags of donations, and twelve trash bags of actual toss-worthy items. It’s hard to argue with results that are obvious and immediate: When you’re done, you’re surrounded by not only more space, but only the things that you love and use regularly. It mostly felt like I’d just done some hardcore Spring Cleaning, but there was a tangible emotional effect too. My little studio apartment suddenly felt more like it had when I first moved into it.

The one big, cherry-on-top revelation that came from the KonMari method is that the newly made space in my apartment didn’t beg to be filled by more stuff — and I’d truly expected that. Instead, I saw the extra space and immediately thought, “Excellent. More room to exist here more often.”

Filling the Space

So that’s the big question. After you’ve decided to give minimalism a try — whether that’s through tidying or opting to live in a Tiny House or purging your social media accounts of toxic friendships — what do you do with the new space you’ve created?

This is the intimidating what now? moment that can kill some of the impact of the entire minimalist effort. (I call it Blank Slate Syndrome.) Like most things that are touted as The Only Life Hack You’ll Ever Need, there’s zero guarantee that it’ll snap your life into place. That’s not how reality works.

An example from your friendly neighborhood 90s kid: If you were raised in the ’90s or ’00s, I’d wager it’s been harder to break the impulse of buying extra or unneeded things whenever you’re out. It’s not a totally mindless thing — it seems like it’s half culture and half psychology. And it’s 100% impossible to avoid when you live in the U.S., where even the tiniest things are excessive. Even while a cashier is bagging your budgeted list of uber-healthy groceries, you’re being watched by a wall of candy (empty yummy things) and tabloids (mindless mind-filler) and pocket-sized trinkets (a slew of just-in-cases). Resisting this One More Thing section is a small victory in itself.

Tools are only as effective if people are committed to using them properly. So while you’re taking stock of the new space you’ve made, double-back to make sure you’re doing the same with your mentality.

Whatever reason you decided to try minimalism to begin with — whatever you wanted to make room for — fill your time and efforts and space with that intention. That doesn’t have to mean acquiring new things. Most people I’ve talked to have wanted more room for people, experiences, habits, and good old fashioned breathing room. Nailing down your initial intention is the thing that will make or break whatever happens next.

The Simple Truth

We’re at a point historically and culturally where there’s so much everything going on, and it’s overwhelming to figure out which things to throw your own energy at on a daily basis. There’s no wrong way to do that, except to do nothing. While it’s not a guarantee or a fix-all, I love the idea of minimalism as the new go-to guide for simplifying our 21st century lives. I trust it because it doesn’t do the work for you — it makes room for you to do the work yourself.