A few months ago, I learned about minimalism. More specifically, I discovered The Minimalists. I don’t recall exactly how I found them, but somewhere in my constant browsing of the newest blogs, podcasts, and books about super-nerdy things like intention and tidying up, they crossed my path in an Oprah aha!- moment kind of way. But as much as this might sound like it’s gonna be a snappy story, let me go ahead and scratch that record right now because I discovered minimalism when nothing in my life felt minimal at all. I discovered it when I was knee-deep in life-changing grief.
You see, this all started at the beginning of the year; but instead of focusing on my goals and starting a new vision board (I mentioned the word “nerd”, right?), the year started with anything but feelings of happiness and hopefulness. 2017 would become the year that, at the young age of 43, and after a three-year battle with ovarian cancer, my best friend would leave this Earth. Nothing about this loss was minimal.
Up to now, I’ve managed not to talk about it really. I didn’t post anything on Facebook about her passing when it happened and I don’t post things on her Facebook page telling her how much she’s missed. (Which –in my opinion– is odd, but to each their grief-stricken own.) Basically, I don’t talk about my personal life publicly. Well, rarely, really. If you search my Facebook page, it (recently) consists of pretty boring posts about baseball. Go, Yankees! So when I decided to finally write about this, I realized that I was about to do the one thing I was so uncomfortable with — exposing my vulnerability and admitting my grief. But that’s also kind of the point of this story, so I’ll go on…
When 2017 rang in, life was about to change in a way that I could not control. Eleven days into the New Year, it was both my sister’s birthday and the final day of my best friend’s life. Yeah… a mind-fuck, right? Like any and all deaths, the world around you keeps moving even if you aren’t ready. For me, it felt like someone pushed a pause button. Everything around me kept going, but I was on “pause.” I remember thinking that there are two types of deaths that we experience in life – a death that affects you and makes you sad, but you continue to move forward — or a death that changes you, and makes you feel like everyone — except you– is moving. This one was definitely the latter. This one was a loss that changed me.
I’d spend the next few months diving into Brené Brown books and TED talks galore, looking for something to connect with because that’s what you do when you lose someone, right?… you find yourself in search of more meaning and ask huge questions like what’s the point of life?…what’s my bigger purpose?… WHAT’S.MY.LEGACY?…
But it wasn’t until a perfect storm of Marie Kondo (The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up), Gabrielle Bernstein, and Danielle LaPorte led me to The Minimalists that my year of being on “pause” finally began to make some sense.
Up to that point, I had dragged my feet through the quicksand of each day as it passed. I did my best to keep moving, but I was just going through the motions. I even stopped writing. Completely stopped. And, worst of all, I stopped believing in my writing – something Ruby would have been sad to know. Oh, yeah… I didn’t tell you her name, did I? Her name was Ruby. And she was one of my biggest writing cheerleaders. Definitely top 5. (Inside joke.)
Somewhere after The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, but in between the daily dose of inspiration of Danielle LaPorte, Gabrielle Bernstein, and Brené Brown, The Minimalists came along. They were like a missing puzzle piece. Suddenly, everything felt connected. The act of decluttering was important, sure. But it was The Minimalists who helped uncover the intention and mindfulness of why we discard items – and why we bring them into our lives in the first place– that led me to feel something very new: alignment. Before I knew it, I was finally able to hit “play” instead of pause. But, this time, I was different. I was changed. I was mindful and intentional in my life now. I felt awakened, not only by the loss of my best friend but also by minimalism, itself.
I don’t know if this strange link between grief and minimalism is really a thing or if it’s just me, but I’d say there’s a huge link between the grieving process and the questions we begin to explore as we come to terms with the fact that our own lives will one day end. Life is never about things, but rather about people and connection. In my opinion, all of the questions that you ask yourself when someone close to you passes away create a perfect blueprint for minimalism. You want more meaning. More purpose. Less things that lack value. More things that add value. More connection. Yep. Minimalism.
For a while, that pause button served an important function. It kept me safe in a protective cocoon where two worlds co-existed: one world that carried on and one that I just wasn’t ready to face, yet. Hitting the pause button kept me from pushing the world away in anger and sadness and even allowed me to stay open to love during an otherwise dark time. Without it, I wouldn’t be writing this today.
Marie Kondo says that when something no longer serves us — but before we discard it, we hold it in our hand and thank it for its time with us, so I will do just that: Thank you, pause button for protecting me when I needed it. You did your job well, and I’m thankful for you. Rest In Peace, little pause button.
There. One less thing.
I already feel a little bit lighter.
