By Karen Sternheimer

It has been a year since losing my home in the Los Angeles firestorm of 2025. While others are reflecting on the anniversary with concerts, community events, and hand-wringing over the rebuilding process, I have been reflecting on my 12 months as a minimalist. It has been an enlightening, and yes, in an odd way a positive experience.

Of course, I wouldn’t have chosen this experience. Finding myself without most of the material possessions I had accumulated for decades was quite a jolt. The first few weeks left me shell shocked.  I was figuring out what I really needed for day-to-day living, while at the same time as managing insurance claims and other adventures with bureaucracy.

It got easier after the first few months, particularly since we are staying in a fully furnished space and haven’t had to buy furniture, linens, or kitchen items. Family members immediately helped with providing some basic clothing items to help us get by during the first few weeks. But after the first few months of replacing basic clothing items, we have dramatically reduced our purchases, partly due to lack of space and in the interest in saving money for our future home.

Sociologists study consumption as more than economic activity, but also as a form of identity formation and a way of connecting ourselves with larger “status communities.”  Here are some of the lessons about consumption I have learned in my year as a minimalist:

Letting go is hard

Part of the reason people hold onto so much stuff is because it contains meaning beyond its value as an object. I had the last birthday card my grandmother sent me before she passed away, the jewelry she gave me, either purchased new or items from her own collection.

Some of the stuff had pragmatic value; it could be used again if needed. The tools, old clothes that could be worn while painting or for other activities that could ruin fabrics. The barely used backpack, newly purchased workout gear, my car that just had brand-new tires installed months before. Cash. Checkbooks. New shoes.

I would catch myself imagining what I would take if I had to do it again—although I was out of town so I didn’t have the opportunity/trauma of having to evacuate. The useful swim bag, new bathing suit, new shoes, some still in their boxes. I would stop myself and eventually this mental loop stopped intruding into my thoughts.

Hearing of neighbors whose houses survived the fire but had to be treated for extensive smoke damage gave me a new appreciation for my situation. They often had to throw out nearly all their possessions or go through item by item and decide what could be kept, or what might be too toxic due to the contaminated ash and air. Some clothing could be salvaged if sent for special cleaning, furniture would need to be reupholstered if possible, but that would cost money. Many policyholders are still trying to get insurance to cover their losses.

Perhaps one of the most difficult tasks when trying to let go having to list every item owned and lost to get insurance to payout on personal property. Basically, you need to make a spreadsheet, going room by room, listing the item, the year purchased, the price, and provide receipts. Then the insurance company decides how much your stuff was really worth according to their depreciation metrics. This exercise is so cruel that the state of California recently passed a law that would require insurers to pay 60 percent of the covered policy (up to $350,000) without requiring a detailed inventory for the claim.

The thrill of the new

While I mourned the loss of many sentimental and practical items I once had, like the aforementioned backpack I had barely used, the new one I replaced it with is actually much more comfortable. Buying new things can be fun, as consumption offers the promise (although often does not deliver), of a brand-new you. From cosmetics promising to make you look and feel better, shoes and socks that allege to cure that stubborn foot pain, or a supplement that will offer health and vitality, new things can feel like a new beginning.

As hard as it is to let go of old things, new things offer the promise of reinvention, of embracing new parts of the self and letting go of previous versions of who we were. For me, that means a total loss of all my business attire or any formal wear, which I don’t plan to replace. My blazers, pantsuits, gowns, high-heeled shoes, and my husband’s suits, jackets, and ties are all gone.

We both bought our business clothes when we were younger and still trying to “dress the part” of our careers. He works from home now and wears whatever he wants, and I no longer feel I have to convince people I’m worthy of being a professor by dressing up for work. Business casual is as dressy as I get these days.

Some habits return

While I love the idea of minimalism for my life, especially in a small space as we await the rebuild of our home, some consumption habits are back. Take my running shoe collection, pictured below. There isn’t much space, but I have two pairs of road running shoes, three pairs of trail running shoes, one pair of walking shoes, and a pair of hiking boots. I promised myself I wouldn’t stockpile as many pairs as I once had (not sure how many were in my garage alone, waiting to be mixed into the rotation), but my initial two pairs of shoes quickly multiplied.

My shoe collection and limited storage space

I also find myself stocking up on food again, something that made me feel secure during pandemic-era shortages. But we have very little space, so I have to be very deliberate, even if something is on sale.

In the first few months after the fire, I didn’t want stuff. I wanted to be mobile, maybe in case we had to suddenly evacuate again. I didn’t envy the friends with full garages, but instead felt relief, even freed from the burden of stuff. Our stuff can be a burden, not just to us, but to family after we are gone—if you have heard of “Swedish Death Cleaning,” it is meant to inspire decluttering by thinking about what we would and would not want to leave behind. And as much as it was hard to move on at first without all my stuff, I am literally free from old baggage.

How does your stuff shape your sense of self, or reflect an old identity you may be looking to shed? How else are things social, not just personal?

Photo courtesy of the author