Goodbye things, enter minimalism: on what remains when we remove the excess

There is an almost imperceptible change in the way we talk about life today, and that is that we no longer ask what we want, but what we can afford. And that “afford” rarely refers to time, attention, or peace. More often it means square meters, objects, experiences that can be documented, published, and archived. With this, existence itself, in a quiet transition, has become a logistical project of managing things.

We are used to believing that fulfillment is built through accumulation. More experiences, more clothes, more options, and ultimately, more versions of ourselves that we never manage to catch up with. Yet, in recent years, a countermovement has been growing stronger, asking an uncomfortable but liberating question: what if excess burdens us?

Minimalism is a topic we explored in April in our Materia Book Club. The very concept of minimalism has long ceased to be merely an aesthetic trend of white walls and empty shelves. It is actually a psychological, cultural, and existential response to the fatigue of overload. One of the most famous figures of this movement is Fumio Sasaki, the Japanese author of the book Goodbye, Things, who attracted a global audience with his radical honesty. Sasaki does not write from the position of a guru, but as a former collector of his own frustrations. He used to fill his apartment with objects, and his life with comparisons. Today, he claims that letting go of the excess helped him feel contentment for the first time.

His story is intriguing because it touches on something universal: many people do not suffer from a lack of things, but from an excess of everything that demands attention.

In this context, minimalism appears as an aesthetic trend but survives as a psychological necessity. What began as a visual discipline, white walls, clean lines, the absence of the superfluous, soon revealed itself as something deeper: an attempt to unburden life from the invisible weight that things carry with them. Because objects are never just objects. They represent the personalities we nurture, decisions, projections, ambitions, and delays.

Fatigue from the version of ourselves reflected by the things we own

At some point, almost imperceptibly, what we own ceases to be a collection of useful objects and begins to resemble an archive of our own insecurities.

In this sense, Fumio Sasaki's story feels less like an anecdote and more like a case study. His decision to get rid of almost everything, books he hadn't read, clothes he hadn't worn, objects that served as promises of some future, more disciplined life, was not motivated by aesthetics, but by fatigue from the version of himself that these things maintained.

It can be concluded that there is a specific kind of fatigue that does not come from too much work, but from too many choices. A closet full of clothes that do not fit our current life. Shelves full of books waiting for a better version of the reader, one who is calmer, perhaps more educated. An apartment that is not messy, but is never finished. All of this produces a quiet tension, one that cannot be precisely named, but is constantly felt.

Minimalism is not so much an act of renunciation as an act of revelation

One of the fundamental assumptions of the modern economy is that the next purchase will make us more satisfied. This assumption is not entirely wrong, it is just very limited in time. The satisfaction derived from a purchase has an expiration date. What remains after it is the need for a new stimulus. Psychology calls this hedonic adaptation. Culture calls it progress.

The problem is not in desire, but in its structure. We want things not because we need them, but because we think they will bring us closer to a version of ourselves that currently eludes us. That version, of course, never comes in the form of objects. But objects offer the illusion that it is attainable.

What, exactly, is this object trying to replace? A lack of time? Uncertainty? The need for validation? The answers rarely lead back to the store.

The objects we own and live with drain our energy

Before we read this book in our Materia Book Club, few of us thought about how much the things we own drain our energy, that is, have the ability to structure our attention. Every object in a space demands at least a minimal amount of cognitive energy, to notice it, ignore it, move it, clean it, keep it, or discard it. When these demands are added up, the result is something resembling mental noise.

Psychologists have long warned that space is not neutral. The environment affects stress levels, focus, and the sense of control.

An overcrowded apartment is often not just an aesthetic problem. It can be a materialized delay. Books we will “read one day”. Equipment for a hobby we will “take up one day”. Clothes for a life we will “live one day”.

Sasaki describes exactly this: shelves full of books he hadn't read, instruments he didn't play, gadgets he didn't use. The problem was not the objects themselves, but the feeling of his own incompleteness that they maintained.

To reduce the number of objects means to reduce the number of micro-decisions. And to reduce the number of decisions means to free up space for what cannot be automated: focus, creativity, presence. In this sense, minimalism is not the opposite of abundance, but its prerequisite, yet an abundance of a different kind, one that can be experienced.

How to bring time back into your life

There is also a more practical, almost prosaic aspect to this story: time. Fewer things mean less maintenance, less organization, less impulsive spending, less work that serves exclusively to maintain a standard that may never have been a real choice.

In this redistribution of time lies perhaps the greatest value of minimalism. Because time, unlike things, cannot be accumulated. It can only be freed or lost. And this is exactly where minimalism ceases to be a philosophy and becomes the infrastructure of everyday life.

Of course, the question remains whether living with less can truly make someone happier. The answer, if there is one at all, is probably not universal. But perhaps it is the wrong question to ask. Maybe minimalism is not a path to happiness, but a way to remove what systematically stands in its way. Because sometimes the problem is not a lack of joy, but an excess of distraction, and when distraction is reduced, what remains is not spectacular. There is no dramatic transformation, no final version of oneself. There is only a series of small, almost imperceptible shifts: an easier morning, a quieter space, a more focused day, the feeling that life no longer requires constant management.

How to start without radical cuts

It is not necessary to sell half of the apartment and sleep on the floor to feel the benefits of a simpler life. It is enough to start with a few questions:

• Do I really use this or am I keeping an idea of myself?

• Would I buy it again today?

• Does this bring me joy, peace, or functionality?

• How much does it cost me in space, time, and attention?

• What would open up if it wasn't there?

The first step can be one drawer, one closet, one category of digital life, or a month without impulsive shopping. The goal is not perfection, but awareness.