- I spent decades collecting things that made me feel more secure.
- Then I lost my job, became an idle servant, gave up almost everything and started travelling.
- Along the way, I discovered that the life I was trying to build was never really about stuff.
I spent months searching for the perfect couch for my new Seattle townhouse and debating which family photos would fill the collage picture frames I found online. I bought coordinating throw pillows, rattan barstools, and a whale-shaped butter dish that I loved.
After feeling extremely embarrassed as a child when I brought friends over and was teased for wearing the same two pairs of ordinary jeans repeatedly, I began working at the age of 15 and have never forgotten how it felt to purchase that coveted pair of Guess jeans with my first paycheque.
I thought my wealth would give me the security I always wanted
This feeling stayed with me for decades as I collected souvenirs, art supplies, home-making tools, and hundreds of books that I thought would one day fill my personal library.
Then I lost my job, became an idle servant, and realised how weary I was of paying to maintain a life I barely had time to enjoy.
Within a few months I started to let go. I gave away almost everything I owned, put what was left into storage, and began the slow journey to midlife.
Downsizing from a three-bedroom townhouse to a small basement apartment and finally to a 50-square-foot storage unit wasn’t easy.
Downsizing forced me to question who I am without my stuff
I was so worried about letting go that I packed my storage unit like a Tetris puzzle, labelled each box, and created an inventory spreadsheet so I could always locate the mementos, family documents, and backup clothes I’d stored away.
My four-door Kia Forte became my home while I drove up and down the West Coast as a travelling housekeeper and pet sitter, chasing the sun and trying to figure out who I was beyond being a mum, carer, and corporate employee.
While I’m still not able to completely give up my luxuries, I packed my favourite blanket, a travel blender, and a coffee grinder in my car so I could make coffee the way I wanted.
But I started noticing that whenever I went to a store, I would stop wandering the aisles and go straight to what I came to buy.
Then I visited a friend who shared my love of reading, and she gave me a pile of books for which I had no room. I felt grateful and overwhelmed at the same time. They were all on my to-read list, and I wondered where I would put them. Giving away books was the hardest thing for me, and I still harboured the dream that someday I would have my own personal library with comfortable chairs, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and my children’s favourite childhood stories, which are still packed in my storage unit. I wondered if there was any room left for a few more people.
I found out I was collecting the wrong things
That’s when I realised how much of my life I’d spent defining myself by my things. Books weren’t just for reading, whale-shaped butter dishes weren’t just kitchenware, and Guess jeans weren’t just pants.
They were all proof that I had become the person I always wanted to be. I was a woman with a beautiful, welcoming home. A mother who preserved all the memories of the family. An artist surrounded by books and materials. The child who no longer feels like an outsider.
I thought about all the memories, new friendships, and adventures I’d accumulated during my life on the road. These were the things I wanted to collect: experiences, relationships, and the freedom to make choices about what mattered most.
I am still travelling with two small suitcases and wearing the same small clothes. But the woman who once needed an inventory list to track her belongings rarely remembers what was packed.
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