In my search for a new place, I found myself obsessing over the smallest details. Too ugly. Ceramic floors. Outdated furniture. Not enough sunlight. Too ugly. Just totally, stubbornly obsessing over the things that wouldn’t bother me in an item I purchase.

Almost 2 years ago ago, when I left my college home to escape covid, I had to come to terms with leaving my stuff behind. A whole bunch of sentimental items I collected over the years, donated and dumped. The move was a catalyst to my minimalist journey. It’s been 2 years of living in furnished, temporary homes that would allow me to not attach myself to things, and I’m feeling confused.

I regularly discard the things I no longer use to make room for the things that fit better into my life. Yet as I’m finding myself moving into the 5th place in less than 2 years, I feel all but settled. Yes, it’s exciting. It’s a new place, a new chance for new beginnings. A new neighborhood to explore, a new home. But on the other hand, it’s not my home. It’s not my apartment, not my room, not my kitchen not my couch, not my nothing. Even the things I do own, they’re not really mine.

I pretend to adopt a minimalist lifestyle, yet I am deeply attached with the idea of finding the perfect environment for myself, without committing to the time or effort that is typically required. I’m stuck in a contradiction I created for myself. If I want the former, I need to embrace the imperfections and instability of my surroundings. If I want the latter, I need to forsake the ability to just pick up and move.

I want both, and that’s the story of my life.