Minimalist by Default

By Karla Mundo

 

I grew up wearing the same pair of shoes until I saw a hole in the sole. I would cover it by inserting a piece of cardboard so that my toe did not touch the dirt through the gap. I also placed rubber bands under my long school socks to keep them from collapsing around my ankles. As a child, it never occurred to me to count how many items I owned or collected. The idea of having a "collection" implied having the money to purchase it, and I simply could not afford a hobby.

Food and shelter were the priorities. I knew I had the basics—whatever my mom could afford. My father had passed away when I was born, leaving my mother as the sole breadwinner for five children. Most of the time, she had to divide a limited amount of food among the six of us. This is a habit I find myself repeating today, at least until my husband reminds me that there is no need; in America, there is more than plenty.

In Mexico, we used the same sofa, kitchen table, and furniture from my childhood all the way through college. I slept in the same twin bed from my early years until I married. I didn’t see it as right or wrong; it was just the way it was.

I went to school with kids who had money—families who owned homes, businesses, cars, books, and toys. Although I noticed the difference, it did not bother me. I had my things, too: Barbies, dolls, and a bike. I wasn't "poor-poor," but somewhere in between. Somehow, material belongings were never my focus. I had grandparents, friends, uncles, and aunts.

For some reason, my dream was always to go to college, not to buy things. Perhaps growing up in an economically disadvantaged family instilled in me the idea that education was my path to a better life. My grandparents never owned a house, despite my grandfather working hard until the day he died. Unfortunately, he also drank heavily. My maternal grandmother was not expected to work outside the home, yet she oversaw the household, sold Avon, and eventually opened a small candy store where she supplied food to blue-collar workers.

With great effort, my mother almost finished building a home in a neighborhood we were ultimately too scared to live in. She sold it, and we continued to rent.

In the past few years, I have heard the term "minimalism"—living with less, living simply so that others may simply live. It seemed strange to me that people who had the opportunity to own so much would choose to give it all up—the very things many others wish for but cannot afford. I read about men and women in corporate America who decided to reduce their belongings, challenging themselves to live with only 99, 45, or even 24 items, focusing on what they love instead of working for "stuff." Learning about these minimalists took me back to my childhood and college years.

I was a minimalist by default. I grew up in what society calls a "third-world country," where many still live in extreme poverty in homes made of cardboard boxes; where people work endlessly and still barely have the basics.

Things have changed in the 22 years since I came to America. I arrived with a single suitcase, and now I own many things—mostly books, thousands of them. As a child, I could not afford them. Books were for people with extra money, and we were not among them. Since becoming a mother 15 years ago, I started purchasing books for my son. Although I argue it is a "healthy addiction," I must confess: I am addicted to books.

Books have been a vital part of my life. I sometimes wonder what my life would have been like if I had just checked them out from the library instead of owning them. Now, I carry them wherever I go because I do not yet own a home. I have relocated 17 times across three different countries, three different states, and too many cities and apartments. Every time I move, my books and belongings go with me. Recently, I have been pondering: what if I did not possess anything? It would certainly be easier to move with just a suitcase in hand, but could I truly give everything up—especially my treasured books?

The goal was always to buy a house so my books could have a permanent home, but that hasn’t happened yet. I feel a sense of anxiety when I find myself organizing things daily. I have more cups and dishes than I need; I wash dishes as if I have a large family, even though there are only three of us. I have more than 20 towels and hundreds of pieces of clothing that I keep donating, yet they somehow seem to multiply. I counted over 20 pairs of shoes for myself, 15 for my son, and 10 for my husband. I thought to myself: we only have two feet each, how can we possibly wear them all?

Arranging my closet reminded me that I must stop consuming to break this loop of buying, donating, and organizing. I have repeated this cycle for 22 years! It’s insane—how did I get here? Does it "spark joy" to be constantly organizing? No. Marie Kondo’s words are always in my mind, asking if what we do or buy sparks joy. It is a profound realization: if an item or activity does not illuminate our lives, it is time to let it go.

For 22 years, I have donated toys, clothes, and books. I have reduced, reused, and recycled. I buy organic produce and use household products that won’t endanger the planet. I am conscious of my footprint, yet I still consume.

I thought we were living a minimalist life. We own only one car, which we have used to carpool everywhere for 15 years. We live in a one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment. But lately, I have felt overwhelmed by the constant management of "stuff." I am infinitely grateful for the opportunity to have and to share, but something feels out of balance.

So, my resolution for 2022 has made me feel lighter and happier. The idea of returning to the basic life I knew growing up appeals to me. Living with only what is necessary and avoiding the trap of overconsumption is the ideal. I have been donating books to the library and items to Goodwill, clearing out the excess to make our lives easier.

Reclaiming time to focus on what matters most is crucial. We want to spend less time organizing and more time enjoying walks, friends, family, road trips, and conversation—the things we truly love as a family. In short, we want to live a life of purpose and meaning.

Is your life overwhelming you with stuff? Is your garage full? Would you like to start giving things away but don't know how? Perhaps try one room at a time, one closet at a time, or one drawer at a time. Eventually, living with less will bring a peace of mind that cannot be found in hoarding or holding on. I assure you, I will be sharing my journey back to myself and the lessons that "living more with less" has taught us.