Minimalism after Losing “Everything”

By Karen Sternheimer

Over the years, I’ve written about minimalism a lot on this site. After losing my home and most of my possessions in the Los Angeles fire storm in January 2025, I am now officially a minimalist.

Before having this experience, when I’d see emotional reports of people returning to a burnt home, sifting through wreckage of their former stuff, I couldn’t bear to imagine that happening to me. A quick news search of the terms “lost everything in a fire” yields countless hits. What does it mean to lose “everything,” from an insider’s perspective, and why might we define our possessions as “everything” from a sociological perspective?

Sociologists study the meaning of consumption in everyday life, particularly how consumption is part of what Max Weber called “status communities.” These communities might not only be geographic spaces but are groups that we affiliate with based on what we have. Think about the make and model of a car, the kinds of clothes that we wear, or our neighborhood of residence as signaling a particular socioeconomic status.

In a consumer-based society such as our own, it is not surprising that we would think of our things as “everything.” Economic sociologist Juliet Schor’s classic book, The Overspent American: Why We Want What We Don’t Need examines how buying things is a social act, something we do not just for our own psychological needs but as part of reference groups that we aspire to be part of. Schor concludes from her research that even those with high incomes might feel materially lacking based on their comparison with others.

I find myself in a unique position—one I wouldn’t choose, nor would I wish upon others—to experience first-hand how to live with less. A lot less.

Some of this is pragmatic. While staying with friends, we have a lot less space to store things. Right now, I have one large drawer, one shelf, and one small drawer to hold all my clothing, down from a large walk-in closet and tall chest of drawers. I am challenging myself to purchase only what I need both because of space constraints and to save up for what I am sure will be an expensive rebuild of our home.

Even while embracing the concept of minimalism—living with just what I need and making do with less—it is still a struggle. Upon learning that my house was gone, one of the first things I did was go on an online shopping spree to replace essential toiletries and get a few basic items of clothing. Sociologist Sharon Zukin writes in her book Point of Purchase that shopping is a means through which we create value and the promise of creating “an ever-improving self” (p. 9). I was excited to have some new things, even as I set about to only buy what I needed.

But it has been hard to let go of the stuff that I lost, especially the things that I had bought on sale in duplicate or triplicate to have for later: the perfect lightweight hiking pants (3 pairs gone), 2 pairs of waterproof hiking shoes, 3 pairs of waterproof hiking boots (high tops for added ankle support), a back-up pair of road running shoes, and a back-up pair of the black wedge loafers I wore to work nearly every day.

Just as Zukin writes about the search for value in shopping as central, I took pleasure in stocking up on items I considered to be good value that I knew I would use. I also tended to buy items that were on sale and discontinued, making replacing them practically impossible, like the puffy coat I wore nearly every day from November through April with the zip pockets on the side and one on the front, or the hiking pack that doubled as a carry on bag when I traveled.

I also took pleasure in stocking up on food pantry items when things went on sale. After the 2020 shortages during the pandemic, having a full pantry and freezer made me feel secure. From bags of dried beans and canned tomatoes in the pantry to homemade broth and pre-cooked foods meal-prepped for the week ahead in the freezer, we had all the food we needed. Our first visit to a grocery store to buy things we had plenty of before the fire was particularly painful.

I’m embracing the challenge of buying only what I need, but it has been hard, especially when I have seen items at a good price. A pair of the hiking shoes I lost was on sale, but I already have a pair of hiking boots and trail running shoes, so I passed them by but I thought about getting them for a few days.

I also passed by a pair of trail running shoes at a great price at a local chain that focuses on buying and selling lightly used clothing. I like the purpose of this store, although it is clearly geared for the fashion-conscious consumer a few decades younger than me, at least based on the music blasting in the store. I came back a few days later, with some items to sell (which they passed on) and decided to get the shoes. Did I break my pact to only buy what I need, since I just bought trail running shoes a few weeks before? Maybe. But they were about half the price of what I would consider a deal, and I will use them….

Did I lose “everything” in the fire that took my home and most of my things? I don’t think so—the humans and feline that lived there are safe and now housed. Yes, nearly all our stuff is gone, stuff imbued with personal and social meaning. We are fortunate to be able to get new stuff, with new meaning, and to have friends and family share some of their stuff, creating new meanings.

Before the fire, we had been working with older relatives to help them discard lots of their stuff that had lost its use value but was laden with emotional meaning. In some ways, knowing we won’t have decades of things to sort through someday, is a small relief.

Photo courtesy of the author

Comments

[Susan]

It’s just stuff. Things can be replaced. That doesn’t always mean that they SHOULD. This world is not my home, the angels beckon me…🎵🙏😇💕

[Geometry Dash]

It's insignificant. You may always buy new stuff. The implication that they SHOULD is not necessarily there. The angels are calling me away from this earth.