I own three bicycles.
That's probably more than I need.
The funny thing isn't that I own them. The funny thing is that every time I walk past them, I feel like each one is asking me the same question.
"When are you going to ride me again?"
It sounds ridiculous until you notice it happening with everything else.
A camera that hasn't been used in months.
A gadget sitting on a shelf.
A pile of books collecting dust.
The more things we own, the more they quietly ask for our attention.
That's when I realized something.
Maybe we don't own as many things as we think.
Sometimes, our things own a small part of us.
I Wasn't Looking for Minimalism
I wasn't searching for a new lifestyle.
I wasn't trying to become "that minimalist guy."
I was simply overwhelmed.
Back then, my room was messy. Things piled up faster than I realized. I bought things because I thought I might need them someday. I kept boxes. I collected random items. Every object seemed harmless on its own.
Together, they became noise.
Around high school, I started watching videos about minimalism. One of the first things that really stayed with me was Minimalism: A Documentary About the Important Things, starring The Minimalists and directed by Matt D'Avella. It examines the lives of minimalists from all walks of life — families, entrepreneurs, architects, artists, journalists, scientists, and even a former Wall Street broker — all of whom are living meaningfully with less.
That documentary opened the door for me. After that, I kept exploring ideas from people like Randy Calica and Sakiya. Eventually, I picked up books like Goodbye, Things, The New Minimalism, and Francine Jay's work.
At first, I thought minimalism meant owning almost nothing.
White walls.
One chair.
Three shirts.
A toothbrush.
Thankfully, I learned that wasn't the point at all.
The First Thing I Let Go
The first things I gave away were my clothes.
Not because they were ugly.
Not because they were broken.
Because I never wore them.
I realized I kept opening the wardrobe only to reach for the same few shirts over and over again.
Everything else was just taking up space.
So I donated them.
Surprisingly, I never missed them.
The same thing happened with books. As much as I love reading, I eventually moved most of my reading to a Kindle. The stories stayed with me, even if the paper didn't.
That taught me something important.
Sometimes we're more attached to the idea of owning something than actually using it.
Things Have a Voice
One idea from Goodbye, Things has stayed with me for years.
Unused things slowly lose their value.
Not because they become old.
Because they're not fulfilling the purpose they were created for.
A bicycle wants to be ridden.
A camera wants to take photos.
A notebook wants to be written in.
A guitar wants to be played.
When those things sit untouched for months, they almost feel like unfinished conversations.
Now when I buy something, I don't just ask, "Can I afford this?"
I ask, "Will this become part of my life, or will it become another object asking for my attention?"
Minimalism Is My Brake
People often assume minimalism is about buying less.
For me, it's something different.
It's a brake.
I still buy things.
I own three bicycles.
I spend money on cycling gear.
I build computers.
I enjoy good headphones.
I care about cameras.
I subscribe to Spotify, YouTube Premium, and Duolingo because they genuinely improve my daily life.
I'm far from a perfect minimalist.
The difference is that minimalism gives me a moment to pause before I buy something.
Whenever I want something expensive, I wait.
Thirty days.
If I'm still thinking about it a month later, maybe it's worth bringing into my life.
Most of the time, it isn't.
The excitement disappears long before the thirty days are over.
What You Own Isn't Who You Are
This might be the biggest lesson minimalism taught me.
My bicycle isn't my identity.
Neither is my computer.
Neither is my camera.
Neither is my phone.
They're tools.
Useful ones.
Sometimes beautiful ones.
But they're still tools.
I've met people who define themselves by the things they own.
The watch.
The car.
The newest phone.
The biggest house.
I've also caught myself doing the same thing.
Minimalism reminded me to ask a different question.
If I lost all of this tomorrow, who would I still be?
I'd rather be remembered for the things I've built, the people I've helped, and the character I've tried to develop than for the brands sitting on my desk.
The Internet Made Buying Easy
One downside of living online is that everything is always one click away.
Someone always has a better setup.
A faster bike.
A nicer desk.
A newer gadget.
It's easy to believe happiness is hiding behind the next purchase.
Sometimes it is.
Most of the time, it isn't.
The internet has given me incredible opportunities. It helped me learn programming, find jobs, meet communities, and build products.
But it also taught me to compare.
That's a lesson I'm still trying to unlearn.
What I'd Save
People sometimes ask what they would save if their house caught fire.
After making sure everyone was safe, I'd probably grab my computer, my phone, and my important documents.
Not because they're expensive.
Because they're irreplaceable.
The computer contains years of projects.
The phone holds memories and connections.
The documents represent pieces of my life that can't simply be bought again.
Everything else?
I'd eventually figure it out.
Learning What "Enough" Feels Like
I don't think I'll ever become someone who owns only one bicycle or ten pieces of clothing.
That's never been my goal.
My goal is simpler than that.
I want to own things intentionally.
I want every object in my life to have a reason for being there.
Not because someone on YouTube told me to.
Not because a book said so.
Because I know the cost of owning something isn't just money.
It's attention.
Time.
Maintenance.
Mental space.
The older I get, the more I believe those are the things we spend most carelessly.
People often ask me when I'll know I have enough.
I think I already do.
I have enough when I can eat without worrying.
I have enough when I can express myself by building things.
I have enough when I can ride my bike in the morning, come home, and spend the rest of the day creating something meaningful.
Everything after that isn't about having more.
It's about choosing better.
