The Myth of ‘Just Owning Less’
Minimalism is the performance of restraint by those who have never truly known scarcity.
The modern cult of minimalism is a peculiar thing. It marches into our lives, draped in the purest shades of beige, whispering sweet nothings about decluttering, simplifying, freeing ourselves from the tyranny of our possessions. It promises enlightenment through the artful absence of things—fewer clothes, fewer books, fewer relics of a life actually lived.
But here’s the rub: minimalism, in its most celebrated form, is not the philosophy of the practical, nor the creed of the working class. It is the indulgence of those who can afford to pretend that need does not exist. It is austerity, romanticized. It is the performance of restraint by those who have never truly known scarcity.
Decluttering Is for People Who Can Buy Things Twice
The evangelists of minimalism love to tell you to “just get rid of it.” If you haven’t worn it in a year, toss it. If it doesn’t bring you joy, donate it. But this advice only makes sense if you live in a world where replacing something is effortless. If you have never had to think about the cost of re-buying a winter coat because you prematurely purged your last one in a fit of aesthetic zeal.
For those of us who were raised in homes where “just in case” was a survival strategy, not a hoarder’s affliction, the idea of discarding useful things is absurd. We keep what we have because we know life is fickle. We know that the moment you throw something out, the universe has a nasty habit of making you need it again.
Minimalism assumes the future is predictable, that prosperity is permanent, that nothing unexpected—an illness, a layoff, a global crisis—will come along to remind you how foolish it was to cast off the excess. But for those who have lived at the mercy of uncertainty, owning things isn’t clutter. It’s insurance.
Minimalism Is a Privileged Aesthetic
The kind of excess that minimalists abhor—the crowded apartments, the stuffed closets, the overflowing bookshelves—is only mocked when it belongs to the wrong people. For much of our history, having countless possessions was a luxury reserved for the wealthy. But as consumer goods have grown cheaper and more accessible, filling our homes with stuff is no longer out of reach for most folks. This shift has led to a fascinating new dynamic: in a world where nearly everyone can accumulate plenty, choosing to pare down and embrace a minimalist lifestyle has become a symbol of privilege. It signals that you not only have the means to acquire things but also the freedom to let them go, thereby becoming, a class marker!
Then there’s the cultural erasure at play. This sterile, Scandinavian minimalism—where everything must be sleek, monochrome, and devoid of character—stands in direct opposition to the way most of the world actually lives. Walk into an Indian home, a Caribbean home, a Middle Eastern home, and you will find warmth, layers, color, history. Objects that tell stories, that hold generations, that are not meant to be discarded like last season’s trend.
Minimalism, at its core, is arguably, a Western conceit. It assumes that a life well-lived should leave no trace. That history should be neatly boxed up and donated to the nearest charity. That a space devoid of personality is somehow more evolved.
Minimalism as a Performance
Here lies the great hypocrisy. The very people who preach the virtues of “owning less” are the same ones who will spend thousands on the right kind of nothingness. They don’t own nothing, after all. They own fewer, more expensive things. They don’t reject consumerism; they refine it.
A minimalist home is not an absence of wealth, but a careful, curated performance of restraint. A $1,000 designer “basic.” A $500 perfectly neutral couch. A stark, empty room that whispers, I have so much money, I don’t need to fill this space.
Meanwhile, the poor and working class, whose homes are filled with objects borne of necessity, are shamed for their lack of aesthetic discipline. It is not that they have more—it is that their “more” is not aspirational. Their belongings are not curated. Their clutter is not chic.
But That’s Not an Excuse for Plastic Hoarding
Now, let’s not confuse rejecting minimalism with embracing the hollow, mass-produced clutter that has become a different kind of plague. The opposite of minimalism is not drowning in cheap plastic farmhouse signs from Target, nor should it be filling every surface with disposable seasonal decor from Walmart.
Somewhere along the way, the middle-class, especially women—perhaps feeling a deep void left by minimalism’s cold sterility—turned to another affliction: mindless accumulation in the form of “cozy” consumerism. The fake “Live, Laugh, Love” signs. The endless rotation of throw pillows that exist purely to be swapped out every season. The matching Rae Dunn mugs, carefully labeled “Coffee” and “Tea,” as if one might forget.
And this disease of junk accumulation has spread. Walk into homes of any race, any background, and you’ll now find the same soulless, mass-manufactured trinkets. Instead of meaningful heirlooms, people are curating their spaces with plastic ideas of warmth, ideas of personality—without the substance. It's the same consumerist disease, just in different packaging.
Choosing What to Keep
Here is what I say to the minimalists: I will not reduce myself to a handful of muted possessions so that my existence offends your sense of order a little less. But to the hoarders of meaningless decor, I say this: your home is not a showroom for discount sentimentality.
I do not aspire to a life of empty spaces and colorless rooms. I aspire to a life that feels full—full of history, full of meaning, full of things that remind me where I have been and what I have survived. But I also refuse to let corporations sell me a pre-packaged identity, where my personality is reduced to mass-produced slogans and things that will break in a year.
So no, I will not get rid of books I have already read. They are not clutter; they are witnesses. I will not discard the clothes that fit only certain versions of myself. They are reminders of who I have been and who I might become again. I will not purge the sentimental, the impractical, the not-quite-necessary.
Because I do not measure my worth by how little I own. I measure it by how much I have lived.