I am no minimalist—at least not yet. But the older I get, the more I feel drawn to that kind of living. After my parents died, and after seeing firsthand the weight of too much stuff through my hoarder sister, I felt a new urgency to clean out, let go, and pass things on. It made me realize how much we collect over a lifetime, and how hard it can be to separate our memories from our possessions.

Ten years ago, I moved into a tiny home—900 square feet of simpler living, or so I thought. Since then, I have shed many things. Some went to my kids, some I sold in a booth, and some I donated to our local thrift store for the Coastal Humane Society. Even after all that, there are still things everywhere. It is amazing, really, all the things we keep because we think we might need them one day, or that we feel the need to acquire.

For me, the benefits are clear: more time, more space, and a mind that can function more easily without the chaos and clutter. There is less time spent dusting, moving piles around, and trying to remember where I put things. Every bag filled for donations, every item sold, and every box passed along gives me a breath of freshness in this little home. Minimalist living, at its best, creates room to breathe.

There is also something deeply comforting about realizing that the memories attached to objects do not disappear when the objects do. What stays is the life lived, not the stack of boxes, the dusty shelf, or the constant low-level stress of too much to manage. As I age, truth and peace matter increasingly more to me.

Of course, the path to living with less is not simple. It is emotional, time-consuming, and sometimes exhausting. I am still very much in “get rid of it” mode—filling trash bags, sorting boxes and totes, selling items on Marketplace, and gifting things where I can. Minimalism may sound peaceful, but getting there often looks like a mess before it looks like peace.

Then there are the places that still haunt me a bit: the attic and what I jokingly call my “Shed of Shit.” Those spaces hold the leftovers of a life fully lived—and the proof that this is still a journey, not a finished project. They are next on my list, and soon. That is the honest part of this process: even when you know the benefits, actually doing the work takes energy, discipline, and a willingness to face what you have avoided.

For me, minimalist living is not about having a perfectly bare house or fitting everything I own into a few neat containers. It is about making life easier, lighter, and calmer. It is about letting go of the dust, the clutter, and the constant searching so there is more room for peace of mind. At nearly 68, that feels like a worthy goal—and every item donated, sold, or thrown away feels like one more small win. Winner for me.