Minimalism is about intentionality. It’s about questioning all of the stuff in your life — the physical, mental, and emotional — and asking how would my life look differently if I removed that which is unnecessary, that which bogs me down mentally, emotionally, physically, and financially, so that I can pursue the hobbies, experiences, and relationships that bring joy and add value to my life.
I am a minimalist. My journey toward minimalism began the day after my dad died. I woke that morning in my childhood bedroom wearing the same clothes as the day before. A cold sweat had overtaken me, and so I hurried to the small bathroom adjacent to my bedroom where I lifted the lid of the toilet seat and vomited forcefully, my stomach muscles contracting and tightening, my back arched like a cat, then relaxed. I would vomit, then lay on the cold tile floor balled up in the fetal position. After a moment’s pause, I would vomit again. “What’s wrong? Son, are you okay,” my mom called from downstairs frantically, worrying perhaps it was something more. Still on edge from the day before — when death had knocked.