When Less Was More Than Enough

Every winter for the last few years, I watch the same scene unfold. Cars lined up before sunrise. People wrapped in coats, clutching lists. Cold hands waiting for warm doors to open, not to a shelter, not to a dinner table surrounded by friends and family, but to a sale. Not because wanting good things is wrong. But because it feels like we’ve forgotten what life is for.

Moving to North America, the abundance stunned me. The sheer volume of stuff. Endless choice. Homes built to hold more than we could ever need. It’s loud. So loud it drowns out the quieter questions: Am I present? Am I at peace? Am I living for what matters?

Jesus warned us, “Life does not consist in an abundance of possessions.” (Luke 12:15) Yet we live as if it does. We’ve confused having with living. We’ve mistaken choice for freedom. We’ve filled our homes while our hearts stay restless. And deep down many of us feel it: This can’t be it.

I’ve come to believe this with my whole heart: Life is not for buying stuff. It’s for serving people. For laying down our time, our attention, our gifts, so someone else can breathe a little easier. For choosing less, so we have more to give. For remembering that love, not stuff, is what lasts. I don’t want a life measured in what I own. I want one measured in who was helped, who felt less alone, and whether God was seen in the way I lived. Because when the bags are empty, only love remains.

I know this isn’t just an idea. I’ve lived it. After my husband Costa died, I reached a moment where I had to choose, hold on to the life that was, or trust God enough to let it go. So I sold my dream house. Two years after his death when I finally had the courage. I sold almost everything I owned. When I drove away, everything left in my life fit into my car, well it fit into a trailer, I had 3 dogs and a 2 year old that I had to fit in the car.

And I felt free. More free than I had ever felt before.

I went and stayed in a small house on the beach in Ballito, and somehow, with less than ever, my heart was fuller than it had been in years. My days weren’t managed by possessions. There was space, to breathe, to grieve, to notice God again and the beauty of life.

My beautiful empty house...

My trailer, or rather a borrowed trailer, from the Griesel family.

I will never ever forget their kindness to me during my grief.

Our cottage in Ballito.

That season taught me something I will never forget:

Freedom isn’t found in owning less.
It’s found in needing less to feel whole.

Now my house is full of stuff again. Not because I wanted it to be. But because life happened. I rebuilt. I tried to make a home for my daughter. I tried to be safe again. And in a culture where “full” houses mean “we’re okay,” stuff crept in quietly, one small decision at a time. And now my soul remembers: This isn’t who I am. This isn’t what freedom feels like. There’s no shame in that. It doesn’t mean I failed. It means my compass still works.

“A man is rich in proportion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone.”

Henry David Thoreau

Lately I’ve been longing for what I call a Freedom Year, a season to loosen our grip, simplify, and live lighter. Not as a dramatic declutter. Not as an escape. Freedom Year isn’t a purge. It’s a pilgrimage. A journey back to what is enough. A shedding of what weighs us down so we can move again. A return to what is sacred. For me, it’s about becoming light enough to love well. Light enough to serve. Light enough to follow when God says, “Come.”

Jesus didn’t come to accumulate. He came to serve.

“The Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve.” (Mark 10:45)

And if we follow Him, our lives won’t be shaped by upgrades and accumulation, but by open hands. I don’t want my story to be: She had nice things. I want it to be: She made space. She noticed people. She trusted God. She helped others breathe easier.

I have known a life where everything I owned fit in a car and my heart was fuller than ever. So I know this is possible. I will keep walking toward it again.

Not as an escape.
Not as a purge.
But as a pilgrimage back to what matters.