The Life-Changing Joy of Minimalism on the Road

Several years ago, I couldn’t imagine fitting most of my life into a 40-liter, teal-colored backpack.

I simply had so much stuff that mattered to me. I owned kitchen appliances to feed my cooking habits, magazines I’d played a role in creating, and clothing I’d accumulated over the years to tease out an evolution of personal expression.

My framed art brought me joy. Furniture pieces and knickknacks recalled fun shopping trips. Shoes and bags chimed notes of memories past. Gathering these things — my things — was a labor of love and loss.

I was no stranger to retail therapy and sentimentality, but I was no hoarder, either — I fit all my things in a 700-square-foot apartment shared with another human and a dog. I had a comfortable collection of stuff, no more or less than your average apartment dwelling 20-something.

That stuff didn’t stick around gathering dust for long. Through my teens and twenties, “home” was something that became more and more elusive. I moved every single year for nearly ten years in a row. First, my family sold my childhood home, a deeply personal decision that left me feeling excited but unanchored. Next, I went to college, facing a flurry of dorm rooms, and oversized yet undervalued college houses on tree-lined Iowa streets.

In the summer after my dad died, I wasn’t quite sure where I fit. I was thankful for the couches of friends as I moved three times in three months.

Commitment to a place seemed scary, so I moved around with abandon. But my bubble of stuff kept me tethered. It was comfort, embodied as embroidered throw pillows and well-worn sweaters.

Three years later, I packed into a Ford Fiesta with all of my things plus all of my boyfriend’s and dog’s things, New York City bound. I found myself quite quickly shedding a lot of that stuff. I made countless trips to Goodwill and the Salvation Army, placed dozens of calls about pickups for secondhand furniture, and I corralled my friends into “take my makeup and jewelry” parties.

I felt a little lost about it, but a little lighter.

When I soon realized the true meaning of a “closet-sized” Brooklyn apartment, I downsized even more. I kept running from frightening landlords and disagreeable roommates. I tried out different neighborhoods and three NYC boroughs. Each time I reduced my packing time from two weeks, to two days, to two hours.

During those years of transformation, some important things happened. My clothing choices became more sustainable, and I moved from fast fashion fixes to a few higher quality, ethically made staples. My shopping habits changed dramatically from do I want it, to do I need it? I no longer had multiples of anything. Everything became functional. I learned to find sentimentality in memories, in written words, in digital photographs — not just stuff.

My minimalism was making me happy. But still, life and unattended emotional baggage was getting in the way.

So when I made the choice to travel the world and indulge in some long overdue mental health time, I was slightly more equipped for what I needed to do.

Two months ago, I shed virtually everything that was left. I kept essentials in a couple bins and a suitcase in a closet at home, and made moves to sell my furniture on the whole. I packed an Osprey bag with a week’s worth of clothing and toiletries to last me months on the road. I felt terror at what I was giving up, what could be missing. How naked or unprepared I would feel.

As I started my journey with utmost minimalism, I found something important.

Being in dozens of rooms alone, in different countries, in foreign hostel beds, left me with nothing familiar but myself. It put me an immensely uncomfortable position that ultimately pushed me through change and growth. I learned how to sit with my thoughts and understand them.

The times I felt restless, anxious, when I’d usually browse stores and find something that distracted or inspired me, I focused my energy and resources instead on reaching out to friends and family, expressing myself creatively, or working through my nagging thoughts and emotions.

I’ve shed a lot of vanity in the process. Sentimentality in things had become a stopgap for fulfillment in the only true constant: myself.

Now as I look at this pack and my loyal handful of tops, three pairs of pants and smattering of toiletries, I realize I could actually do with a lot less. Next time around, I will. I realize now that everything I really needed was inside of me.

However, there are a few things I will never part with. My mom spent months organizing patterned fabrics and my favorite t-shirts and sewing them into two beautiful, cozy, quilts, one with an embroidered message on the back. I can’t part with a simple black running jacket that my dad and my siblings spent time picking out for me for one Christmas, one of the only gifts I have from him, even if it doesn’t quite fit anymore. In my travel bag, I have a handful of letters and notes from friends who sent me off with support and love. My trusty journal stays the course, and I buy books on the road, but donate them when I’m finished.

I realize too how unbelievably blessed I am to make a choice about what I keep in my life. For the tens of millions of forcibly displaced migrants fleeing war, taking only essentials is not a choice. They don’t get to decide what comes or stays, and they don’t have enough time to part with the sentimentality behind a lived-in piece of furniture or a dusty family album.

For the lucky families who make it to a better life, they rebuild with only their own grit, the support of strangers, and the clothes on their backs. For my power of choice in minimalism, I am immensely grateful.

And in that power of choice I’ve made a change to never let things clutter my self value. To find comfort and security, and a long-sought sense of home, I’m investing in the comfort inside myself.