Living With Less Gave Me So Much More

It was a Tuesday morning, nine o’clock. My back rested against the recliner chair, as I was too exhausted to feed the seven-month-old balanced on my lap.

Her big, expectant blue eyes locked on mine, triggering a wave of despondency in me.

Another thing to do.

I’d been working since 5 a.m. The work never stopped. When had life become a series of boxes to check off?

The baby’s eyes shifted to my face. Chubby fists attached to my hair, pulling long strands as if to signal hunger.

I should have responded, but instead, my eyes scanned the room.

September sunlight filtered in through the window. I saw a Bible on the nightstand. An antidepressant prescription crumpled in a ball beside it. An unused crib filled to the brim with baby clothes, several pieces cascading onto the floor. Boxes of paper tottering high in a tower. Was that even safe? An assortment of plastic light-up toys, wrapping paper, and golf clubs.

All mine. Well, not technically all mine. But mine to care for. The other rooms were no different. We had an endless influx of stuff.

A lot of stuff.

If these were my “best days,” as my mom and mother-in-law had told me, I couldn’t see it. I was blinded by a home stuffed to the seams with clutter.

I once read that the state of our home reflects the state of our soul. And so it was. Restlessness and angst, all on display.

The baby continued her attention-getting antics, blowing raspberries on my arm and then returning to hair pulling. A tight fistful and yank. Pain ensued.

Pain. I didn’t even feel that much anymore. I’d leveled off at a perpetual state of numbness. Of doing. Of cleaning and organizing and fixing and buying. I was present but not present, there but not really there.

But I wanted to be there. To get back to the “me” beneath the outer and inner clutter. I wanted to enjoy my home and family.

To feel my soul again.

My exhaustion turned to anger. I thought of telling my hungry baby about it but decided that would be counterproductive. She wanted milk, not a revelation of my rock-bottom moment.

But I couldn’t hold it in. My voice echoed against the beige nursery room walls.

“This isn’t what I signed up for! What is really going on here?”

I realized I was talking to God.

“Something needs to change.”

As if prompted, I reached for the Bible. I opened to the Gospels, and my eyes scanned the writings of Luke. A few minutes in, the words struck me, as if the answer to my aimless questions had been there all along.

• Your life does not consist of possessions. (Luke 12:15)
• Be rich in what matters. (Luke 12:21)

Rich in what matters.

Was I rich in what mattered?

The answer was no. A resounding, visceral no.

The words felt like a wake-up call. A call to live differently. To live a life of meaning, a life without regrets. A life without excess stuff.

I wasn’t quite sure what it meant to become rich in what matters, but in that moment I resolved to find out. Because one thing felt clear: It was the path to getting my life back.

But now what? I had no idea.

Two days after this “possessions epiphany,” I had a therapy appointment. I sat, perched on the therapist’s sofa, baby Elena on my lap, overflowing diaper bag beside me. As the session came to an end, I placed the baby on my hip, heaved the bulky bag onto my back, and started toward the door.

“Julia,” my therapist began thoughtfully, “have you ever heard of minimalism?”

Minimalism.

“You mean houses with white walls and next to nothing in them?” I replied.

The therapist smiled. “There’s more to it than that. Look into it,” she said. “I think you may be interested.”

Look into minimalism.

I was intrigued. Sitting in my car immediately after the appointment, I did my first online search—keyword minimalism. A plethora of books, blogs, and podcasts popped onto my screen. Intrigue became interest, and soon I was hooked. I devoured all the resources I could find.

And then the aha moment happened: I didn’t need all this stuff.

I didn’t need it to be happier. I didn’t need it to be liked, to have value, to look successful, or to give our children a good childhood.

Living with less stuff would mean more time and energy to focus on who and what mattered. Improved relationships, time immersed in prayer, space for a hobby I loved—it was all waiting for me there under the piles of random possessions. I didn’t have to be a full-time stuff manager anymore.

I felt like a veil had been lifted. All along, the answer wasn’t more. It was less.

I was still deeply entrenched in a tunnel of postpartum depression, but for the first time in months, I could envision an exit. Looking down that tunnel, I saw a small opening in the distance. With less stuff, I could fit through it.

***

Over the course of a year, 75 percent of our possessions went packing. With less stuff, I began to see that minimalism also applied to the “me” underneath my stuff. My inner clutter also needed to go.

As I jettisoned unneeded physical items, I realized I was curating two homes, an outer home and an inner home. The first housed my possessions; the second—the home of my soul—housed God.

God is ultimately what matters. And regardless of the state of our inner homes, he wants in. He wants space to rest and reside. He wants to guide us to a meaningful, rich, abundant life.

And it all starts with clearing the clutter.

Mother Teresa said, “The more you have, the more you are occupied. . . . But the less you have the more free you are.” True freedom is found in Jesus, and the less clutter you have distracting you externally and internally, the more time, energy, and attention you have to devote to life-giving union with him.

I’ve found this to be true. Instead of feeling numb, I now feel free to deeply experience and enjoy life. I’m no finished product—I’m still walking simplicity’s path. So join me on this journey of physical and spiritual house-clearing.

Taken from Declutter Your Heart and Your Home by Julia Ubbenga. Copyright Julia Ubbenga© (April 2025) by Zondervan. Used by permission of Zondervan, www.zondervan.com.