Let’s be honest, my apartment was less “curated living space” and more “episode of Hoarders: The Next Generation.”  Sentimental t-shirts piled higher than my student loan debt, enough mugs to fuel a small village’s caffeine addiction and a disco ball (don’t ask) –  it was a cluttered wonderland.

But minimalism was everywhere, all clean lines and capsule wardrobes promising a life of zen detachment.

So, as a self-proclaimed champion of “stuffocation,” I decided to embark on a week-long experiment in “Minimalism-ish.”

Because let’s face it, true minimalism and I are about as compatible as glitter and a freshly vacuumed carpet.

My week of (semi-successful) decluttering went something like this:

• The “KonMari-ish” Method: I attempted to ruthlessly declutter but sentimental value fought back like a rogue sock in the dryer. Let’s just say some questionable fashion choices from the early 2000s made a surprise reappearance.
• The One-Pan Struggle: Can one frying pan truly replace my entire culinary arsenal? The jury’s still out but scrambled eggs have achieved a new level of “abstract art.”
• From Fashionista to… Beige Blob? My attempt at a minimalist wardrobe resulted in a questionable outfit montage. Think “sad beige blob” meets “who stole my personality?”
• The Great Sock Debacle: Minimalists apparently don’t need a mismatched sock zoo. My dogs strongly disagrees and frankly I can’t blame him.

Did I achieve minimalist nirvana? Heck no. But did I create a slightly less cluttered space and (hopefully) save some money on my next grocery bill?  Absolutely!

Here’s the thing: Minimalism isn’t about becoming a beige-clad robot who lives off air and positivity.

It’s about finding a balance between stuff and serenity. 

So, embrace the piles (briefly), ditch the disco ball (maybe) and reclaim your space, one mess-reduced corner at a time.