I’ve become a big fan of minimalism over the past few years.

It started when we moved from our home of 30-plus years.

Packing up a house has a way of forcing you to reconsider your decision to hold on to things that haven’t seen the light of day in decades. Suddenly, every keepsake comes with a question: Do I really want to carry this into the next chapter?

I’ll admit, some things did linger on the line between old and new chapters and made their way into the truck and straight to the attic of the new house.

It took a minute, or a few years, but the more we settled into our new home, the more bothered we became by those old keepsakes.

Slowly, they were sold or donated, ready to start a new chapter of their own outside the boxes stored in the attic. I often imagined them being released from prison for a crime they never committed.

With that mindset, we began decorating our new home with used items that still had plenty of life left in them and could brighten a room.

I draw the line at sofas and chairs, but everything else, including artwork, is secondhand, often made when things were built for quality rather than designed with a two-year shelf life.

My sister-in-law refers to us as Amish, and I’m okay with that label, especially since she’s one Amazon order away from being featured on Hoarders.

Now I have a system that seems to work. If something new comes in, something old has to leave. I call it the “Even Steven” method, and it’s worked well for us. It forces us to make purchases with purpose rather than impulse.

The truth is, we don’t need much. We just happen to live in a society where the line between need and want has become increasingly blurred. Before long, wants start masquerading as needs, and we convince ourselves that one more purchase will somehow make life better. It doesn’t.

These days, I find more satisfaction in the space between things than in the things themselves. A room feels calmer. A closet feels lighter. Life feels less cluttered.

That’s not to say I’m driving a horse and buggy. Every now and then, something follows me home that probably shouldn’t. Old habits don’t disappear overnight, and Home Goods is a mile away.

What I’ve learned is that possessions don’t become valuable simply because we own them. Their value comes from being used, appreciated, and enjoyed. If they’re spending their days buried in a box in the attic, they’re not doing much for anyone.

Maybe that’s the real appeal of minimalism. It’s not about owning less for the sake of owning less. It’s about making room for what matters and letting go of what doesn’t.

When I think about the things we’ve sold or donated over the years, I like to imagine them finding their way into someone else’s home, where they’ll be used, appreciated, and given a purpose once again.

Sometimes, I dust my second-hand table, whispering, “I wish you could talk.”

After all, some stories deserve to be told.

And some things spent enough time in prison for a crime they never committed.