I spent months searching for the perfect couch for my new home in Seattle and debating which family photos would fill the collage frame I found online. I bought coordinating cushions, rattan stools, and a whale-shaped butter dish that I loved.

After being too embarrassed to bring friends over as a child and being teased relentlessly for wearing the same two pairs of generic jeans over and over again, I started working at age 15 and never forgot what it felt like to purchase that coveted pair of Guess jeans with my first paycheck.

I thought my possessions would give me the security I always wanted.

That feeling stayed with me for decades as I collected memorabilia, art supplies, household equipment, and hundreds of books that I imagined would one day fill my personal library.

Then I lost my job, became homeless, and realized how tired I was of having to pay to support a life I barely had time to enjoy.

After a few months I began to let go. I gave away almost everything I had, saved what was left, and began to slowly journey through midlife.

It wasn’t easy going from a three-bedroom townhouse to a small basement apartment and finally to a 50-square-foot storage unit.

Downsizing forced me to ask myself who I was without my stuff

I was so eager to let it go that I packed my storage unit like a Tetris puzzle, labeling each box and creating an inventory spreadsheet so I could always find the keepsakes, family documents, and backup clothes I was storing.

My four-door Kia Forte became my home away from home as I drove the West Coast as a traveling home and pet sitter, chasing the sun and trying to figure out who I was, as well as being a mom, caregiver, and corporate employee.

Still unable to completely give up my comforts, I packed my car with my favorite blanket, a travel blender, and a coffee grinder so I could make coffee the way I liked it.

But I began to notice that every time I entered a store, I stopped wandering the aisles and went straight to what I came to buy.

Then I visited a friend who shares my love of reading and she gave me a stack of books I didn’t have room for. I felt simultaneously grateful and overwhelmed. They were all on my to-read list and I was wondering where I would put them. Books had been the hardest thing for me to give away, and I was still clinging to the dream that one day I would have my own personal library with comfortable chairs, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and my children’s favorite children’s stories, all still packed in my storage unit. I was wondering if there was room for a few more.

I discovered I was collecting the wrong things.

It was then that I realized how much of my life I had spent defining myself by my things. Books weren’t just something to read, the whale-shaped butter dish wasn’t just a kitchen utensil, and Guess jeans weren’t just pants.

They were all evidence that I had become the person I always wanted to be. A woman with a beautiful and cozy home. A mother who preserved all the family memories. An artist surrounded by books and supplies. The boy who no longer felt like a stranger.

I thought about all the memories, new friendships and adventures I had accumulated during my life on the road. Those were the things I wanted to continue collecting: experiences, relationships, and the freedom to make decisions about what matters most.

I still travel with two small suitcases and wear the same small rotation of clothes. But the woman who once needed an inventory list to track her belongings can barely remember what’s left in storage.