On Wanting Less

When “enough” finally felt like peace

When I was little I couldn’t wait to grow up. I wanted to be tall! And to drive! Stay up late! Eat candy every day! Variations of this persisted through the teenage years, rooted in the belief that growing up happened to other people, not me or my friends. Obviously, we’d be different. We'd stay up late and eat candy together forever.

I remember wanting so intensely it was almost painful. It wasn’t just for toys or clothes (though I wanted those too.) It was a hunger for more. More freedom, more experiences, more aliveness. I used to tear video game ads from magazines just to stare longingly at them. I didn’t just want the game, I wanted to be the type of kid who had the game. I wanted to travel more than anything. I had an ache inside of myself that I couldn’t name, a desire for elsewhere, and to be the kind of person who went to other places. I wanted to crack the code on how to be “cool.” I wanted in.

Looking back, I had so much. But wanting gnawed at me from the inside out. Maybe every kid feels this way, I’m not sure. As far as I know, that was my only time being a kid, so I have nothing to compare it to.

Eventually, the things I wanted started to show up: clothes that let me dress up on the outside to display how I felt inside. An incredibly cool car (if you remember my green Camaro, hi, it’s probably time for readers.) College. Travel. A partner. A career. Experiences I once only dreamed of.

And then something strange happened: when I could finally have almost anything I wanted... I didn’t want anything at all. Not in the same way.

At least when it came to “stuff” i.e., things cluttering up the house, collections, impulse buys. My hunger for travel and experiences never died down fully, but it’s softened and is pacified by my frequent researching of trips and generally having one to look forward to on the horizon.

It’s funny how, when I had less, I wanted so much more. And now that I have more, I want so much less.

I told my husband, “If I get one more thing for Christmas, I’m going to explode!” Which sounds a little spoiled, I guess, but if it’s not something I can use, consume, or experience, I’m just... not interested. These days, I want fewer objects and more meaning.

The turning point, I think, was our first home. That moment, that transaction, meant more to me than I could have imagined. I say this as someone who was once an incredibly dumb twenty-something who didn’t even realize I was (technically) homeless until I was two months in. We had an apartment lined up, but hit the road for a few months first. The first month was amazing and the entire time I saw incredible things, but as we stopped to visit friends and family, I felt that strong sense of longing again and it finally hit me…I had no place that was mine. Everything important to us was in our cars, there was no base, no space for things, or home for memories.

I knew when I saw the photos in the listing that it was going to be my house and that this was stability: in brick and wood and soil. It gave me a place to put things that mattered. And in doing so, it freed me from needing more.

The objects we brought in were for the home itself: garden tools, a patio set, new cookware. Not for show. Not for status. Just for life.

It still took a few years for me to vocalize to others that I didn’t want any more stuff. Something that won’t collect dust.

I have adult money now, if I really want something I can buy it. No waiting for my birthday or Christmas, no saving my pennies. I can just do it, but many times I don’t.

Does that mean I never buy anything frivolous? Absolutely not! I bought a flower pressing kit because the idea of pressing flowers made me happy. I have no plans for them, I just like selecting them and pressing them. The purchase was certainly a want and not a need.

I don’t stay up very late these days, nor do I drive (in my very sensible 2014 Nissan Sentra) to the corner store for candy every day. But, also, I don’t feel driven mad with need for anything. I didn't set out to become a minimalist. I didn’t read a book or join a challenge. I just... stopped wanting.

I have recently learned there’s a actually name for this. Psychologists call it voluntary simplicity, a conscious shift away from overconsumption, not out of scarcity, but because enough feels better than more. And maybe that’s what happened. There was no single moment of clarity, just a quieting over time.

It’s the inverse of lifestyle creep. We hear a lot about that; how incomes rise, expectations follow, and luxuries become necessities. How our baselines shift until we’re chasing “more” without realizing it, running forever on a hedonic treadmill. But , I think, I’m experiencing the opposite. A kind of hedonic plateau. A peace.

When I left my old job about four years ago, my boss warned me about chasing “more.” And she was right to. That move was about more: more responsibility, more impact, more income. I still recall turning that question over in my mind while we were on the phone and the answer was so simple and clear. I replied, “I already have everything I want. I have my husband, my daughter, and our home.” And I meant it.

She said she hoped that would always be enough for me.

It was true then. It’s still true now.

My pursuit of “more” will always be in service to them, not from longing or lack, but from love.