I never thought I’d be writing about minimalism and mental health, but here we are. Three years ago I was drowning—literally drowning in stuff, stress, and the kind of anxiety that makes you feel like you can’t breathe in your own home. Now I’m sitting in my calm, clutter-free apartment writing this, and I can honestly say minimalism didn’t just change how my place looks. It saved my sanity.
When I first moved into this small apartment after my divorce, I wasn’t choosing minimalism. I was being forced into it by 900 square feet and a bank account that looked like a sad emoji. But what started as pure necessity turned into something that completely changed my relationship with stress, anxiety, and what I actually need to feel okay in my own skin.
You know how they say your environment affects your mood? I always thought that was just something people said to sell organization systems. Turns out it’s absolutely true, and I learned it the hard way. Those first few weeks in the apartment, trying to cram a three-bedroom house worth of stuff into two bedrooms and a tiny living room, I felt like I was losing my mind. I’d walk in the door after work and immediately feel my shoulders tense up. There was stuff everywhere—toys scattered on every surface, clothes draped over chairs because we didn’t have enough closet space, kitchen gadgets stacked on counters because the cabinets were full of dishes we never used.
Emma would come home from school and immediately start complaining about not being able to find her homework folder. Lucas couldn’t play with his Legos because there wasn’t enough clear floor space. I couldn’t cook dinner without moving six things off the counter first. Everything felt hard and overwhelming and exhausting, and I was already exhausted just from being a newly single mom working full-time.
The breaking point came on a Tuesday evening in October. I’d had a particularly long day at the dental office, picked up the kids from after-school care, stopped at the grocery store, and walked into our apartment to find that Lucas had dumped out three toy bins looking for one specific action figure. The living room looked like a tornado had hit it, I had nowhere to put the groceries, and I just… broke down. Sat on the floor in the middle of all that chaos and cried.
That’s when I realized something had to change, and since I couldn’t afford a bigger place, it had to be the stuff.
I started small because honestly, the idea of decluttering everything felt as overwhelming as living with it all. One drawer at a time. One shelf. One toy bin. But something weird happened—every time I cleared out a space, I felt a little bit lighter. Not just physically lighter, like there was less to look at, but mentally lighter too.
Getting rid of clothes I never wore meant I could actually see what was in my closet and get dressed without frustration. Donating kitchen gadgets I’d used once meant I could find what I needed without digging through drawers. Helping the kids sort through toys they’d outgrown meant they could actually play with what they kept instead of being overwhelmed by too many choices.
The mental shift was gradual but undeniable. Less stuff meant less visual chaos, which meant my brain wasn’t constantly trying to process and organize what it was seeing. Less clutter meant less time spent looking for things, which meant less of that low-level stress that comes from always feeling like you’re running behind. Fewer possessions meant less time spent maintaining, organizing, and managing things, which meant more time for what actually mattered.
I started sleeping better. Seriously. When your bedroom isn’t full of clothes you need to put away and surfaces covered with random stuff, it actually feels like a place where you can rest instead of another task on your to-do list.
The kids adjusted faster than I expected, probably because they were seeing the benefits too. Cleaning their rooms went from a two-hour ordeal with tears and arguments to something they could actually accomplish in twenty minutes. They complained less about being bored because with fewer toys, they were more creative with what they had. Emma stopped having meltdowns about what to wear because there weren’t overwhelming options in her closet.
But the biggest mental health change wasn’t just about having less stuff—it was about changing my relationship with wanting stuff. Before, I’d walk through Target and feel this constant pull toward things we didn’t need. New organizational systems that promised to solve our clutter problems (spoiler alert: they don’t work if you have too much stuff to organize). Cute decorative items that would make our place feel more “homey.” Toys or clothes for the kids because they were on sale or because other kids had them.
Living with less taught me to pause and ask myself what we actually needed versus what I thought we should have. That shift from automatic consumption to intentional choice-making was huge for my anxiety. Instead of feeling guilty about things I’d bought and didn’t use, or stressed about money spent on stuff that didn’t improve our lives, I started feeling more in control of our finances and our space.
The mental clarity that came with physical simplicity was something I hadn’t expected. When your home isn’t constantly demanding attention—things to be picked up, organized, cleaned, maintained—your mind has space to focus on other things. I started reading again for the first time in years because I wasn’t spending all my evening time picking up clutter. I had energy for conversations with my kids instead of being distracted by the mess I needed to deal with.
There’s also something to be said for how minimalism affects your relationship with emotions. When I was getting rid of things, I had to confront why I was keeping certain items. The dress I’d worn to my wedding that I’d never wear again but felt guilty donating. Books I thought I should read even though I wasn’t interested in them. Gifts from people that I didn’t like but felt obligated to keep. Dealing with the emotional attachments to objects forced me to deal with some of the emotional baggage I’d been carrying around.
Letting go of physical things taught me it was okay to let go of other things too—expectations that weren’t serving me, guilt about decisions I’d made, the need to keep up appearances that were exhausting to maintain.
The ripple effects extended to my relationships too. When I wasn’t constantly stressed about the state of our home, I was more patient with Emma and Lucas. When we weren’t spending weekends shopping or organizing clutter, we had time for activities we actually enjoyed together. When I stopped feeling embarrassed about having people over because of the mess, I started building real friendships with other parents.
My ex-mother-in-law still doesn’t understand why we live with “so little” (her words), but she’s started to notice that the kids seem calmer and happier. My sister, who lives in a McMansion filled with stuff she doesn’t use, has started asking me for advice about decluttering because she sees how much more relaxed I am.
The thing about minimalism and mental health is it’s not just about the aesthetic of having a clean space—though that helps. It’s about removing the constant low-level stress that comes from being overwhelmed by your environment. It’s about having the mental energy to focus on what actually matters because you’re not using it all up managing stuff you don’t need.
I’m not saying minimalism is a cure-all for mental health issues, and I’m definitely not saying everyone needs to live exactly like we do. But I am saying that examining your relationship with your possessions and your environment can be incredibly powerful for your overall wellbeing. When your home supports your mental health instead of undermining it, everything else gets a little bit easier.
Three years later, I can’t imagine going back to living surrounded by clutter and chaos. Not because I’ve become some kind of minimalism perfectionist, but because I’ve experienced firsthand how much calmer and happier life can be when your space isn’t working against you. The kids have learned to be thoughtful about what they bring into our home, and honestly, I think that’s a life skill that’ll serve them well as adults.
Some days I still feel overwhelmed—single parenting will do that to you regardless of how much stuff you own. But now when I come home after a long day, my apartment feels like a refuge instead of another source of stress. And that shift alone has been worth every single thing I donated, sold, or threw away to get here.
