Let's Get Minimal

Why I donated and sold 75% of my wardrobe and how I plan to live with less

In college, a friend of mine opened her closet to a collective gasp. Most of us needed smelling salts and a defibrillator. Katharine was one of the wealthiest girls we knew and her wardrobe was anemic. Fifteen wooden hangers displayed a handful of stylish shirts, pants, jeans, and two dresses. She owned two pairs of shoes and a pair of sneakers. A lone drawer in a chest of five showcased neatly-folded undergarments and one swimsuit.

Katharine was the original Kondo.

We were perplexed, befuddled. Ours were closets packed to the gills, filled with shirts in multiple colors and cuts. And although my wardrobe was more Fordham Road than Fendi, I could go for a month without wearing the same thing twice. We were reared to worship at the altar of more. Who needed a capsule wardrobe when one required options? What would a Friday night be without tossing twelve shirts on your bed and bemoaning the fact that you had nothing to wear? We would become the women who would thumb through 500 channels and lament the lack of programming. Who would believe that our choice paralysis yielded no choice at all.

When I think about the stacks of paychecks I spent on what I put on my body and feet, I wince. The conspicuous consumption of my twenties and thirties bordered on addiction — a closet stuffed with glitter shoes and cashmere sweaters. One could never own enough pairs of black pants and ballet flats, or so I thought.

Years ago, I was an equity partner in a New York agency that was slowly killing me, and when I wasn’t chained to a Keynote presentation or an aisle seat on an airplane, I was blind buying. Ordering online, ransacking stores. Some people snort coke; I snorted v-neck sweaters in every color imaginable.

My affection for gluttony changed. At first, the shift was imperceptible to me. Maybe it was my frequent trips to developing countries where carrying a fancy handbag felt garish, a disturbing display of my wealth and privilege. Or perhaps it was my work-from-home lifestyle where I didn’t have to mimic the walking fashion plates I knew in high school or at the office. Or possibly it was my move from New York, where people would sneer at L.A.’s culture of excess whilst donning Celine sunglasses and the latest It bag on their way to a $40 spin class. The irony of their materialism was a 747 soaring over their coiffed heads.

But it happened. I grew disgusted with my own consumption and the debt monsoon that ensued because I just had to live beyond my means. Fill a void of sorrow and stress with Miu Miu and J.Crew. Not to mention all the horrific waste. It sickens me, even as I write this now. This is hard to write because this was a version of me of which I’m ashamed. I had to be the woman with the handbag and fancy shoes because it meant something. Though I’m just not sure what that something was.

Bankruptcy changed my life. Here I was with a degree in finance and jobs at Chase and Morgan Stanley, and I couldn’t even make sense of my finances and addictive spending. But over the past two years, I grew smart and shrewd about money, which happens when you’re no longer tethered to Visa and Mastercard. When you have to spend what you can afford.

I mended clothes, repaired items, and didn’t buy anything that wasn’t essential. And no, cashmere sweaters are not essentials. I sold books on Amazon after I read them. I audited all of my automatic withdrawals and was horrified by how many subscriptions I maintained that I was completely unaware of. I deleted all of my PayPal pre-authorizations. I evaluated software and downgraded to the simplest versions. My seven-year-old laptop is basically held together with duct tape and prayers. My thought being — if it still works, work it.

And now that I plan on living in Airbnbs for the next year, I’m forced to travel with less. Carry only that which is necessary. Over the past month, I’ve donated and sold 75% of my clothing, shoes, accessories, and bedding. I plan on traveling with one suitcase, one weekend bag, my laptop bag (and relevant business papers, cords, etc), and a small bag for all of Felix the Cat’s toys.

Even my shopping habits have changed. If I need something, I’ll only buy it second-hand or from a handful of sustainable and ethical brands. Granted, all clothing production is technically bad for the environment, but at least I can align myself with B-Corps and brands who are trying to affect change. Living in Los Angeles also affords me the ability to go to estate sales or giveaways (my friend went to the home of a woman who just passed and her children gave away all her clothing to whoever had a car and the will to sort through and bag clothes).

No longer do I look to things to fill me; I cleave to people. Friends who fuel and challenge me. Now I’ve realized that what I wear on my back doesn’t define my character. Things are…just things, and they’ll own if you allow it.

Twenty-four years ago, Katharine got it right, and the rest of us with our stacks of tops and disposable clothing, were so terribly, terribly wrong.

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