Bare Essentials

I never intended to become a minimalist, let alone an extreme one. The idea of living with only 50 items seemed absurd—until it wasn’t. My life had become a constant cycle of consumption. I bought things to feel happy, then bought more to fill the void when that happiness faded. Eventually, I found myself surrounded by stuff, yet feeling emptier than ever.

The tipping point came one evening as I sat in my cluttered apartment. I was drowning in a sea of possessions: clothes I never wore, gadgets I didn’t use, and sentimental trinkets I couldn’t part with. I realized that these things, instead of bringing joy, had become a burden. That night, I made a decision: I would strip my life down to the essentials.

The number 50 wasn’t arbitrary, but it was daunting. It felt like a symbolic challenge, a declaration of war against excess. I gave myself one week to decide what would make the cut. Everything else had to go.

I started with the obvious: my bed, a set of sheets, and a pillow. These three items were non-negotiable. Next came clothes. I limited myself to 10 pieces: two pairs of jeans, four t-shirts, a sweater, a jacket, and two pairs of shoes. Each item had to serve multiple purposes and last through all seasons.

The kitchen was harder. I loved cooking, but minimalism forced me to rethink my relationship with food. I kept one pot, one pan, a chef’s knife, a spatula, and a wooden spoon. For dining, I allowed myself a plate, a bowl, a mug, and a single set of utensils. The rest—blender, waffle maker, and countless mismatched Tupperware—went into donation boxes.

Books posed an even greater challenge. They weren’t just items; they were memories, escape routes, and teachers. But I knew I couldn’t justify keeping dozens of them. I selected five favorites and promised myself I could revisit others digitally if I missed them.

With each item I let go, I felt a strange mixture of relief and fear. Would I regret giving this up? What if I needed it later? But as my apartment emptied, I began to feel lighter.

By the end of the week, I had pared my life down to 50 items. The apartment, once cluttered and suffocating, now felt open and peaceful. Yet the real challenge was just beginning: learning to live with less.

The first month tested my resolve. I missed the convenience of having multiple pots when cooking, and I sometimes longed for the comfort of my extensive wardrobe. Social gatherings were awkward, too. Friends would joke about my extreme lifestyle, unable to comprehend how I could survive with so little.

But as time passed, I discovered a new rhythm. Minimalism wasn’t about deprivation; it was about clarity. I no longer spent time deciding what to wear or which kitchen tool to use. Decisions were simplified, freeing up mental space for more meaningful pursuits.

The biggest shift, however, was internal. Without the distractions of excess possessions, I was forced to confront myself. I began journaling daily, exploring thoughts and emotions I had long ignored. What I found was both unsettling and enlightening: much of my previous consumption had been driven by a need to fill emotional voids.

As the months went by, minimalism taught me to appreciate the little things. A warm cup of tea in my single mug felt more intentional. Each of the five books I kept became a companion, their pages well-worn from repeated readings. Even chores like washing dishes were no longer a tedious task but a mindful practice.

Living with 50 items also deepened my relationships. Without the distraction of clutter, I had more time and energy to invest in people. Conversations became richer, and I found myself more present in social interactions. Friends who once mocked my lifestyle began to show curiosity. Some even sought advice on decluttering their own lives.

The experience wasn’t without its challenges. There were moments of frustration, like when my only pair of shoes got soaked in a sudden rainstorm, or when I wished for a second blanket on particularly cold nights. But these inconveniences taught me resilience and adaptability. They also reminded me that I could live with far less than I ever imagined.

By the end of the year, minimalism had transformed not just my living space but my entire outlook on life. I learned that possessions are tools, not solutions to happiness. What truly matters are the experiences we create and the connections we nurture.

Looking around my minimalist home, I no longer saw the emptiness I once feared. Instead, I saw freedom—a life unburdened by excess, filled with intentional choices and meaningful moments.

Would I recommend extreme minimalism to everyone? Not necessarily. But for me, it was a profound journey of self-discovery. Living with 50 things taught me that the less you own, the more space you create for what truly matters. And in that space, life becomes infinitely richer.