I went from a 3-bedroom Seattle townhouse to traveling the West Coast with 2 suitcases. My stuff doesn’t define me.

I spent months searching for the perfect couch for my new Seattle townhouse and debating which family photos would fill the collage picture frame I found online. I bought coordinated throw pillows, rattan barstools, and a whale-shaped butter dish that I loved.

After feeling too embarrassed to bring friends home as a kid and being teased relentlessly for wearing the same two pairs of generic jeans over and over, I started working at 15 and never forgot what it felt like to purchase that coveted pair of Guess jeans with my first paycheck.

I thought my possessions would give me the security I always wanted

The feeling stayed with me for decades as I collected mementos, art supplies, homesteading equipment, and hundreds of books that I imagined would someday fill my own personal library.

Then I lost my job, became an empty nester, and realized how exhausted I was from paying to maintain a life I barely had time to enjoy.

Within a few months, I started letting go. I gave away almost everything I owned, put what was left in storage, and started slow-traveling through midlife.

It wasn’t easy downsizing from a three-bedroom townhouse to a small basement apartment and finally to a 50-square-foot storage unit.

Downsizing forced me to question who I was without my stuff

I was so anxious about letting go that I packed my storage unit like a Tetris puzzle, labeled every box, and created an inventory spreadsheet so I could always find the keepsakes, family documents, and backup clothes that I stored away.

My four-door Kia Forte became my home away from home while I drove up and down the West Coast as a traveling house and pet sitter, chasing the sun and trying to figure out who I was aside from being a mom, caregiver, and corporate employee.

Still not able to fully relinquish my creature comforts, I packed my car with my favorite blanket, a travel blender, and a coffee grinder so I could make coffee the way I liked it.

But I started noticing that whenever I walked into a store, I stopped wandering the aisles and headed straight for what I came to buy.

Then I visited a friend who shares my love of reading, and she gave me a stack of books I had no room for. I simultaneously felt grateful and overwhelmed. They were all on my to-be-read list, and I wondered where I would put them. Books had been the hardest thing for me to give away, and I was still holding on to the dream that I would someday have my own personal library with comfy chairs, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and my kids’ favorite childhood stories, all still packed in my storage unit. I wondered if there was any room left for a few more.

I discovered I was collecting the wrong things

That’s when it hit me how much of my life I’d spent defining myself by my stuff. The books weren’t just something to read, the whale-shaped butter dish wasn’t just kitchenware, and the Guess jeans weren’t just pants.

They were all evidence that I’d become the person I always wanted to be. A woman with a beautiful, welcoming home. A mom who preserved all the family memories. An artist surrounded by books and supplies. The kid who no longer felt like an outsider.

I thought about all the memories, new friendships, and adventures I’d accumulated during my life on the road. Those were the things I wanted to keep collecting: experiences, relationships, and the freedom to make choices about what matters most.

I’m still traveling with two small suitcases and wearing the same small rotation of clothes. But the woman who once needed an inventory list to track her belongings can hardly remember what remains packed away.