Backstory

A brief (not short) story of how I became a more conscious consumer.

Growing up as the daughter of Vietnamese refugees, I watched my family hoard, chase discounts for dopamine fixes, and save nice things for nice occasions that never came. Their most prized possession, leaving Vietnam, was the shoes on their feet. My parents grinded to build and assimilate to life in a foreign country, financially supporting my sister and me, and their immediate families as well. I inherited the imprint of a scarcity mindset as I witnessed constant anxiety and stress around money. I didn’t realize how much of my life I’d been running in survival mode until I burnt out after college and set out to heal myself through therapy, spiritual pursuits, and traveling.

It wasn’t until seven years later that the idea of conscious consumerism was planted in my subconscious. During 2020, I quarantined with my parents in my childhood home as my mother’s caregiver. The scarcity mindset was everywhere — internally, I was unemployed, and all my childhood defaults were resurfacing; externally, the world was moving through a pandemic. To escape the emotional chaos, I watched makeup reviews, not tutorials, of products and fantasized about what it would be like if I had it. Of course, this inevitably influenced me to buy makeup to try, but rarely was it something I wanted to use. One influencer who stood out was Hannah Louise Poston, who was more discerning in her reviews. She had completed a year of no-buy and integrated her self-discoveries into her content. Curious and inspired, I went down the rabbit hole of her no-buy journey: the massive, therapeutically ASMR declutters, and repurposing her own makeup to fulfill her wants and desires.

A year and a half later, I hit rock bottom. My mother passed away. I ended a relationship. I felt lost in my career and finances, and my childhood home was overflowing with clutter. The world felt like it was caving in. The only form of control I had was to shave my hair, address my spending, and reduce the excess of my things around me.

The state of my room 4 months after my mom passed.

I planned a year-long no-buy: no makeup, skincare, books, or clothes unless something ran out and I genuinely needed it. For my possessions, I tried the KonMari method and went through everything I owned, giving thanks and assessing whether it brought me joy. I struggled. I wasn’t always sure what actually brought me joy versus what I perceived should bring me joy, so I held onto a lot more than I wanted or needed. It wasn’t until a month later that I had to confront the excess of my possessions, because I had to actually use and interact with my things without a shopping escape. To be more intentional with the shedding process, I researched where to donate and sell things. I discovered No-Buy groups, what items are accepted for donation, and learned what I can actually sell through Facebook Marketplace or other avenues. I de-influenced myself by unsubscribing to influencers and marketing content and redirected that towards keeping up with other people’s no-buys or project pans (where one commits to fully finishing their products), and learned more about financial literacy.

The hardest part was sitting with discomfort when I wanted to buy something or had trouble letting things go. I had to excavate down to the reason for discomfort, constantly asking myself ‘why?’, and learned how to self-soothe through it. I built the muscle to say no and recognized what underlying needs were desiring to be met. Along the way, I also learned how to resource things for free or cheaply (hot tip: the library has a lot more to offer than just books!) Then, I had to learn to scale back the urge or impulse to pick up free stuff just because I can.

After clearing much of my stuff, in October 2023, I took the plunge and moved to Australia on a work and holiday visa, living out of a backpack for the next eight months. During this time, space was very limited, so I had to hone in on the usage frequency and multi-functional elements of my possessions. Moving around constantly meant consistently reassessing what I actually needed and wanted.

About to leave Woopi, NSW, AUS, with all my stuff packed into two very full backpacks.

For the last hoorah of my trip, I booked a 6D/5N scuba diving liveaboard in Komodo Island, Indonesia. Since I’d be sharing a triple room on a ship in a remote location, I divided everything into two categories: what I loved and used frequently went into a small duffel bag with me, and the rest went into my backpack stored at a hostel. Twenty-four hours after boarding the ship, a fire broke out. Everything burnt down, except what I had on me at the time, which was my least favorite bikini, a sarong, and my phone and camera. Everything else? Gone. No passport, no wallet, no shoes, no prescription glasses, no medication.

The liveaboard on fire on the left. The life raft and day boats that towed us back to land on the right.

We were taken back to the dive resort, the closest habitable land, on a day boat, about an hour to an hour and a half away, where we were given food and drinks, received free branded t-shirts, and a chance to shower as the police arrived and people made calls about what to do next. Eventually, we were transported by the police, another hour-ish boat ride, back to the city of Labuan Bajo, and then transferred from the dock into town via two vans with drivers. Our first stop was at a local department store, where we were told to only pick out 2 days’ worth of clothes (including underwear) and basic toiletries. After, I picked up my backpack from the hostel. It contained one day of dirty athletic wear, a cover-up, and a lot of stuff I did not need at that moment, such as tax forms from my time working in Australia, a completed journal, many little trinkets/souvenirs, and empty travel containers. The liveaboard guests and crew directors were checked into a hotel, where we spent the next few days filling out reports and paperwork and discussing what had happened and what was next to come. Someone who had to clarify to me that I survived a ship fire, not a boat fire (as that was what I had texted my friends and family). I was flown to Surabaya, the capital and largest city in East Java, to get my emergency passport. I took the opportunity of being in a densely populated area to go to the mall. My time there was stark. I just wanted what I had. I had forced myself to buy things out of necessity, such as more underwear, pants, and a shirt. Nothing in the entire mall sparked the joy I craved.

I laughed out loud when I saw this at the Soekarno Hatta airport in Java.

In my trauma-induced thinking, I thought three more weeks of traveling was nothing compared to the months abroad. Instead of flying straight back to the US, I stayed in Indonesia, hoping a replacement credit card would come. It never did. The liveaboard trip was refunded in US dollars cash (instead of being electronically deposited), and I went to Vietnam to visit family and friends, as planned, after the Indonesia travel visa expired. I was back in a scarcity mindset and focused more on shopping. The things I bought were not because I loved them; it was because I wanted a quick replacement. When I returned to the US, I went on a frenzy to find more things to replace. For instance, instead of buying the same couple of shirts from Aritizia, I got five. It wasn’t until I was reaching for a sixth that I realized my nervous system was in overdrive. I had to step back. I had to face reality. I had to grieve what I’d lost.

I know how that sounds. I resisted it too.

They’re just stuff. At least I’m safe. Items can be replaced. 

All the shame from the years of spiritual pursuit through my healing came up. Trust me, I recited philosophies about material attachment, tried to meditate it away, and yet, the grief was still there. When I finally allowed myself to admit my attachments to my possessions and accepted that it was ok, I started processing the grief. It was the sentiment the items held that I was grieving the loss of - such as a hostel shirt bought at the end of a massively amazing time there, or the wallet I hadn’t lost since high school. Since processing this grief, my relationship to my possessions deepened in a way it hadn’t before. I don’t just appreciate my things now; I view them somewhat like an extension of myself. I’m dedicated to caring for them and want to honor how objects can encapsulate memories, feelings, and stories. By extending its lifespan, the item holds more sentiment and becomes more valuable, in my opinion. We are allowed to have material things, just as we are allowed to be in this physical plane as human beings.

I also learned how to carry the memories, feelings, and growth from my travels, and to integrate them into myself without those former possessions. Although the items held sentimental value, they do not define me, my identity, or self-worth, nor are any of my memories or experiences taken away. Going through both grief and self-actualization, I felt like I was receiving a download on how to hold the balance between the spiritual and the physical.

Of everything I lost, the two most valuable items were not because of monetary value, but because of the sentiments they held: sweatpants my mom had given me, not for any special occasion, but just because she thought of me when she saw them, and my dad’s nail clippers, which I had used since childhood. These items seem so minor, but each was part of my daily routines. When I felt ready to start shopping again, I wrote down the aspects that enhanced my routines, or the feelings I felt from using the things, and (if possible) how I wished those items could have improved. I want to note that not everything on my list is just for practicality, as I value beauty and aesthetics as important needs as well. This was my guide to buying and accumulating more items. To be honest, the process isn’t perfect. I can toggle back and forth from intentional to impulsive spending, but I feel more empowered. Almost two years after the fire, I’m learning how to hold space for transitions and not being so rigid about decluttering or buying things. The work is ongoing, as I identify these ebbs and flows of expanding and letting things go, but it feels more manageable.

I hope this inspires you to reflect on your relationship to possession and material items. Here are some questions to help: What’s ready to be let go? What items do you use every day that you take for granted? What items are confronting you to let go? What items are being neglected? What items hold the most sentimental value?