Skeptical but intrigued, I went home and started reading. None of that sounded like my real life in the Ohio suburbs with three kids, two cars, and a mortgage.īut my friend reassured me that minimalism was just a philosophy, a less-is-more approach to living, and that any modern American could adopt it. I immediately thought of monks living in a cave or college students traversing Europe with all their possessions on their backs or black-clad hipsters lounging on white couches in apartments that doubled as art galleries. I thought the solution was to either buy a bigger house or allow no one to buy my kids Christmas presents again, ever.īut my friend looked at me between bites of soup and casually suggested another idea, “Or… you could just become a minimalist.” But more than anything, they added stress to my already stressful full-time-working-mom-of-triplets life.Ībout a week after Christmas I had lunch with a good friend, and I explained my problem. I knew they were supposed to make me and my children happy. We didn’t have room for the things we already owned. As I walked into my house and assessed our already stuffed surroundings, a slow, frightening realization came upon me: #Becoming minimalist declutter old toothbrushes fullI had just started on a minimalist journey, inspired by my 1,500 square foot house that could no longer comfortably contain the possessions of me, my husband, and our three 2-year-olds (yes, you read that right… triplets).Ī few weeks earlier, we’d returned from visiting out-of-state relatives for Christmas with a van absolutely packed full of presents. How many towels do you need? This was the surprisingly life-changing question I faced on a Saturday afternoon in early 2012, as I scrutinized my linen cupboard. Editor’s Note: This is a guest post from Rose Lounsbury.
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