the allure of less
the secret to more is having less
When I was in elementary school, my mom put a note in my brown bag lunch every single day. I saved each scrap of paper and I still have them now, as a twenty-eight year old, in a folder in my childhood bedroom. As you might guess, I’m a nostalgic person. This does not beget minimalism. I get attached to things and the feelings they hold. Paring down my stuff does not come easily.
Twice in my life I’ve gotten rid of nearly everything I own. The first time was three years ago. The second time was last week. It never gets easier. But I now know why it has to happen.
The first time I faced my physical baggage was in the Away suitcase showroom in Nolita. I was wiping sweat from my forehead, to no fault of their air conditioning and every fault to myself for leaving this very important errand for the day before my trip. It was September 3rd, 2021. The day after, I would fly to Barcelona for three months, a trip I have not yet fully come home from three years later.
As I stood there shaking in front of the suitcases, I had the sense that there was no turning back. I could miss the flight, but the plan was already in motion. I had quit my job, I had ended the lease. I had gotten rid of nearly all of my things, sending what I couldn’t bear to part with home to my parents in Michigan and the rest I gave away. I felt better leaving my stuff with friends, as if sprinkling myself around New York would make leaving feel less extreme.
Three years prior, my parents had moved me into my first New York City apartment with a filled-to-the-brim car and a roof-top carrier. I was leaving with a suitcase. The size of which had led me to the Away store that fateful day.
I told the sales associate all of these things. Way more information than she needed to advise me, but I was at the cusp of a life-altering leap and I was telling anyone who would listen. Only once I’ve wrapped up my soliloquy did I realize I had overshared.
“So, you’ll want the large one, right?” she said finally.
“The medium one,” I said. She looked doubtful, but I was convinced.
I went home proudly and started packing. It only took a few minutes to realize I should have gotten the larger one. The next day, twelve hours before my flight, I walk-of-shamed into the Away store, praying the same sales associate wouldn’t be there.
With the medium bag all packed, I bought an Away duffle bag to fit my extra stuff and Ubered to the airport. Even with the extra baggage, it was the lightest I’ve ever been.
Getting rid of everything was necessary. I had to create space. When I arrived at the Barcelona airport with my suitcase (and recently acquired carry-on), I was struck by the overwhelming sense of freedom. I could go anywhere and be anyone.
In the months that followed, I decided who I was going to be. I loved Spain and I loved the person I was there. I wanted to stay forever. As such, my baggage-less trip gained baggage. I started collecting and cherishing and hoarding. When my three months ended, I started talking to an immigration lawyer. I bought another suitcase to bring my new treasures home. I so desperately didn’t want to leave that I collected marks on my body too, getting two little tattoos, my first and only.
I returned to the US, sorted out my visa things and then returned to Spain. This time, sure I would set up my life there, I rented an apartment with a five-year lease. I bought every piece of furniture to fit out that two-bedroom apartment and a complete new wardrobe for this person I hoped to be. She was a writer. She hosted dinner parties. She wore beautiful flowy dresses and would meet the love of her life.
Unbelievably, all of that came true. I met my then-boyfriend, now-husband, Gustavo, and started publishing writing. We had a beautiful life there. I collected momentos and moments. I vowed to never leave. But then a year later, Gustavo got an amazing job in Scotland. And as much as I loved Spain, I loved him and the life we were building together more. So I started to prepare for the move to Edinburgh. But I did not make the same space for it.
When we moved, I did not get rid of hardly anything. I did not go lightly (physically or emotionally). Instead, I bubble-wrapped every piece of china in my 100-piece-dinner-party-set and organized a moving van to drive from Spain to Scotland with all of our furniture. I refused to give away anything. Not the 50 euro paintings I had gotten from a market or the lamp I had pulled out of the trash. I wanted to hold onto my life there.
I tried to bring Spain to Scotland.
But I know now that you can’t transport a feeling by transporting things.
It has been a year and a half of living in Scotland. Even though I kept my things from Spain, my life does not feel like it did in Spain. Newness will emerge whether you permit it or not.
When things come from nothing, they demand space. Time. Attention. Energy. My freelance writing career went from essentially non-existent to having a heartbeat with bylines in Vogue, The New York Times, Elle, Condé Nast Traveler, Architectural Digest, and The Times. I’ve made lovely new friends. And in two big milestones, Gustavo and I got married and we bought an apartment. Priorities had to shift and schedules had to rearrange for these things to happen.
The apartment has demanded more space than I originally anticipated. It’s a lovely little flat, seventy-two square meters of historical cornicing and quirks. But as with any renovation, getting the apartment move-in ready was a much greater undertaking than I could have guessed (more on this in another newsletter). I’ve declined many plans with friends to strip wallpaper in the flat. Gustavo and I painted until midnight the three days before our move-in. In this way, having a cut-off date was helpful. Having an unflinching deadline is a forcing mechanism for ruthless prioritization.
The prioritization came to physical things as well. And this time, I’m able to do it differently than I did in the Away store. I know what I can’t take with me.
The apartment we bought is half the size of the one we rented. That means that all the stunning furniture I brought over from Spain that I couldn’t live without, that we paid thousands to ship over, has been sold off one-by-one in excruciating Facebook Marketplace sales. I’m surprised to tell you that it doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. A year ago, bringing this furniture over was the most important thing in my mind. But it’s too big for our new apartment and more importantly, it doesn't fit the style we will decorate in, one that suits us both.
Our things reflect what we value and when our priorities change, so do our objects. The things that were the most important to me two years ago, like having a dinner table that could fit twelve people (lol!), are now less important. Among other things, I’ve come to realize I love catching up with a friend one-on-one, maybe even more than I enjoy hosting a boisterous dinner party.
I didn’t come to these conclusions alone. I’ve had good advice on the topic of de-cluttering. An interior designer messaged me on TikTok about the reason to part with beloved furniture:
“In my experience, furniture rarely looks as good [in the next place] as in the first place it was chosen for.”
It’s such a simple statement, but it was so salient to me. Of course the furniture I chose that was perfect for our bohemian Barcelona apartment doesn’t feel as great in a Scottish tenement flat. The climates and cultures (let alone the dimensions!) are different, so why did I think the furniture would work the same?
I also loved Brigette Muller’s video on the topic. She said that she asks herself this question when considering whether or not to keep an object:
“Is this who I want to be going forward?”
That question feels like an unlock. As I’ve written before, our environment greatly affects who we become. It makes sense that the things in our environment have an impact on us as well.
As I pare down my stuff, I feel the energy spreading across other aspects of my life. At this moment, I would much prefer to have less. Fewer clothes, but the ones that fit. Less space, but our own space. I’d prefer to have a handful of amazing friends than a larger group of pretty good ones. I feel myself narrowing everything down, a contraction. Luckily, I know that means that an expansion is coming.
I’ve found life to move in cycles and as such, I feel deeply connected to the version of myself two chapters ago who was preparing to leave New York, cutting through her memories to make space for new experiences. It’s happening now. Emptying out before filling up. This is the moment before something cataclysmic happens.
To have more, I need to have less.
Thank you so much for reading! I’m hoping to publish on a more regular, weekly cadence so expect a dispatch in your inbox next week. If you liked this newsletter, let me know in the comments and share with a friend (or ten!!!)
With joy,
Sarah
this resonates soooo much. moving cross-countries is definitely a great forcing function [to be more intentional with the objects you wanna keep and cherish in your life]. wonderful read, thanks for sharing.
this reminds me our own experience, written here: https://open.substack.com/pub/objet/p/079-15-years-moving?r=2cys&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web
I adored reading this, all so beautifully said. 😘