Six weeks ago I stood alone in a vast storage warehouse in North London. I had just waved goodbye to the last of my worldly goods – a white shabby chic sofa that I had bought as an investment piece years ago. It seemed rather fitting: the first thing I had ever bought for my first flat was the last thing to go. That sofa had hosted some good times, and in bad ones, it had provided me with the perfect place to wallow. In a funny way, it was like seeing off an old friend and knowing I was never going to see them again.
Back outside I stood in the grey April day for a moment, digesting what had just happened. Over the past two weekends I had sold virtually everything I owned: furniture, art, books, rugs, tableware, TVs, book, clothes. My wardrobe, a few books and the Marc Jacobs handbag on my shoulder were now the only things I had to show for nearly two decades of adult life. I waited for the tears, or at least a big wave of mixed feelings. Instead, I just felt free. I took myself for a latte in my favourite coffee shop and waited for the 'Oh God, what have I done?' moment to hit, but it never did. Rather than being overwhelmed at the prospect of starting all over again, I felt that a world of new possibilities had opened up in front of me.
My thirty-year-old coupled-up flat-owning self would have been horrified by the single, possession-less me in 2015. I was always the archetypal homebody: my greatest pleasure was trawling markets and emporiums at weekends and lusting over Scandinavian furniture porn. I loved inviting friends over for dinner and soaking up the compliments about the chic yet cosy place I had created. My home was my kingdom, my castle, my refuge and my sanctuary. My home was me.
Until three years ago, when my long-term relationship ended unexpectedly. I had sold my two-bedroom flat to buy a four-bedroom Victorian terrace with my ex. We'd been together almost seven years and while marriage and children weren't on the agenda, buying a house together was a huge commitment. It was supposed to be our forever home but, as I was to find out, while money and material possessions can make a house look lovely, they're no guarantee of a happy home. Our relationship had worked well when we'd had separate places, but living together immediately revealed the cracks in it. After only a few days in our new place I made a major discovery which destroyed my trust. The boxes were still lying around us, unpacked, but I knew I had to move out. I went to live with a friend while all my beloved belongings went into storage, and eventually, he bought me out. It was a double trauma: not only was I dealing with the loss of someone who had been in my life for a long time, I had no place to call my own.
Admittedly, adjusting to single life again was a big deal. But strangely, I found that not having any of my stuff around me actually speeded up the healing process. There were no memories to drag me back down; no physical reminders of the things we’d bought together, or the bed we’d slept in. Occasionally I would think about ‘my life’ neatly tucked away in storage, but it was like it belonged to someone else.
Home stopped being my security blanket and, dare I say it, my self-imposed ivory tower. Whereas before I would have spent most evenings curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine, I started going out more and meeting new people. Not just nights down the pub, but attending talks on subjects I’d never thought about. That prompted me to start reading different kinds of books and forming new opinions. It made me realise that before, I had allowed my belongings to define me to the point that I’d developed a rigid outlook on life in other ways.
My attachment to my possessions dwindled even more last year when I went to India to volunteer for a street dog charity. People there obviously live on a lot less, but rather than feeling sorry for them I saw how much more spiritually rich they were. A good life was about family, community and counting the blessings they did have. The idea that a new armchair was going to make me feel more relaxed, or that yet another Skandium tealight was going to complete my existence, suddenly seemed ridiculous. I had been so busy building up my own little world that I’d been oblivious to the one happening all around me.
When I came back from India at the start of this year I knew it was time to sell my stuff. It had already cost me thousands of pounds in storage and I couldn’t afford to buy again in London – so what was I holding onto it all for? So I announced on Facebook that I was turning my storage unit into a pop-up shop and watched as a succession of friends, aquaintances as work colleagues arrived and left with my belongings. Most of it went for a fraction of what it cost but I was relieved to get rid of the burden, and I actually enjoyed the idea of it being appreciated anew by someone else.
I'm even applying the 'less is more' attitude to my wardrobe. I ended up with just a few key items, but where before I would have seen that as a licence to buy more, now I think very carefully before handing over my credit card. I've hardly bought anything new. I've realised that before, a large part of my identity was based on material possessions that could break or go out of fashion. When that’s all stripped away and you’re left with, well, you, you start to rely on yourself. Weirdly, since becoming less attached to possessions I also find myself being less bothered by feelings of hurt or resentment, or getting caught up in other people's dramas. Being less attached, in a good way, has made me rethink every aspect of my life. I'm thinking of a career change and have just become an ambassador for the street dog charity TOLFA, something I’m hugely proud of.
So what advice would I give my possession-heavy 30-year-old self? The one staring horrorstruck into the future, screaming: ‘But I had my lovely home – now look at me!’ I’d say: ‘Relax, it’s fine. They're just things.'
By Jo Carnegie