The Life You Want Is Not For Sale

August last year was a breath of fresh air after lockdown as we were able to go on our annual trip to our favourite little cottage in Pembrokeshire. I drifted onto Pinterest and Instagram once each, and wasn't able to tear myself away from my emails as much as I would have liked, but the holiday was an interesting benchmark to see how I was changing. 

Our first visit, I was heavily pregnant, had no real sense of identity and so was shopping constantly as if I could build a self that way, and found it a relief to give up wearing make-up (strange now that that once seemed so radical!) and immerse myself in sightseeing and novels.

Our second, I was not far into my first attempted no-shop year. The Wi-Fi had arrived, and I was anxious and plagued by comparison, desperate to improve myself in various ways as I didn't feel up to the standard of other women I saw. This was the year of frantic Pinterest- and ASOS-scrolling in bathrooms.

This year, I felt much more relaxed and comfortable in my own skin. I kept up with messages, surveys and emails, more because I felt I should than because I wanted to, so I didn't get that complete sense of escape, retreat and renewal, but it didn't get out of hand either. I enjoyed trying local foods, and I did make some purchases, including a second-hand knitting book from a junk shop, a hat from a woollen mill we visited, and a skorts situation (one of the most useful items of clothing I own! Dries really quickly and has three pockets!) from an ethical clothing store we visited so that I could go swimming comfortably whilst on my period. I felt much more engaged with and aware of nature - we spent a lot of time on the beach, swimming, clambering over rocks and finding incredible things in rock pools. And the comparison was gone - hooray!

In September, our trip to Glastonbury rolled around, shortly before my birthday. Again, I made some purchases - the first of which was a book on nålbinding and a bone needle from the Viking shop Wyrd Raven (love me some heritage crafts!). 

As usually happens when I find myself in places where everyone is a bit alternative in manner of dress, I felt a bit boring and basic. I can't win with this. If I bust out the velvet dresses and shitkicking boots I feel self-conscious and like The Weird Friend(TM) (I have friends who do introduce me as "the weird one" - they don't realise I'm actually really super-sensitive and cry a little inside). If I wear jeans and t-shirt I feel plain and unimaginative. But the comparison is a far cry from what it used to be, and I don't need dreadlocks and a cupboard full of dubiously sourced crystals to be interested in the environment or to enjoy Glastonbury. 

We had a busy weekend of sightseeing, drinking blackberry mead in our hotel room and (in my case) looking hopefully for faeries, and I had no difficulty with refraining from shopping until the very last day, when I broke on all counts. I couldn't resist an Instagram post, and I bought three items of clothing. I was disappointed with the first point, but not the second in the end. Although I was time-pressured (Dai and the Spud were waiting in the car) and budget-constrained, the three pieces I bought - essentially on impulse, wanting to capture the sense of excitement, unconventionality and free-spiritedness I was feeling - have turned out to be three of the most-worn, most-loved and useful things I own! A chunky multicoloured knitted jacket with a fleece lining, which has served me well over the winter, a pair of purple tie-dye dungarees, and a pair of harem pants with a muted rainbow stripe. 

Before I decided I was going to make some purchases, shopping ban be damned, the Spud and Dai and I sat eating our breakfast and drinking our much-needed coffee at a spindly table in the village square, basking in the sunshine. I was hunched over my phone, researching the ethical credentials of the shops I planned to visit, until I was satisfied I could give myself the green light to go ahead without guilt on that front. 

I was also pleased with myself because I have a clear memory from my first Pembrokeshire trip, when I chose not to buy a pair of bright tie-dye leggings, because I was worried they might "draw too much attention to me". I was happy that I was beginning to choose for myself, not make myself small or try to fit a label (I used to buy pretty much anything vaguely goth that came across my path).

Coming home from Glastonbury I felt quite rejuvenated. I expect that, living in a place that is largely pretty provincial, it's healthy to be reminded that it's okay to be a bit more 'out there'. I started to make more effort with decor around our home, and I considered planning an annual or biannual trip to Glastonbury to stock up on mead, Goddess statues, Viking jewellery and unconventional ethical clothing. 

I had a twinge or two in case this was all a bit consumerist, but at the same time I wondered (as I have many times before) whether the human soul simply needs colour, beauty and art every now and again.

A lot of my wardrobe felt a little lacklustre in comparison to my new things. I had been playing it safe for a long time - worried about attention, or vanity, or consumerism. I'd almost forgotten the joy of impulse-buying something that is exactly right, or choosing a book in a real, physical bookshop. Non-chain-store shopping that is ethical and vibrant and brings a little excitement. Surely this is not the same animal as the blind, semi-desperate basket-filling I used to do in Primark, IKEA, Zara, it's-cheap-so-I'll-have-it? Is it selling out to consumer culture to take joy in well-chosen material objects, to appreciate the things we use and cherish them, not buy them to be used once and discarded?

Browsing online started to frustrate and irritate me. I couldn't find items that produced the same spark, especially since I wasn't sure what keywords to use or where to look. Standard labels we use like 'hippie' or 'alternative clothing' mainly turned up stuff that was mass-produced, sweatshop-made and unoriginal, which wasn't at all what I was looking for (is it 'alternative' if you bought it from the same website or brand that all the other 'alternative' kids are shopping from this week? What's unique about a goth-in-a-box kit from Attitude Clothing? Tell me how that's less basic than buying all your clothes from New Look). 

Then it was my birthday. It was fantastic and felt really special - books, flowers, sunshine and a most excellent Indian takeaway. 

On my birthday, I decided that the shopping ban was to be no more. I wrote in my journal, "I want to be able to treat myself without guilt - enjoy books, films, music and art as and when I want to without feeling bad about it. And I want to learn to find a balance between spending and being frugal without going to one extreme or the other." 

Can you guess what happened next? That's right! I went to the other extreme. It started so promisingly - we went to an artisan's market, and I bought nothing. Hooray! I had discovered that I could make good decisions and apply what I'd learned without clinging to the framework of trying never to buy anything. 

Except... not so much. Online browsing, annoying and unsatisfying though it was, quickly filled up my spare moments. Within three days I'd bought six clothing items, an art piece, and some more books. Whilst the items were great, I knew I couldn't afford for this to continue, and I also felt lacking in purpose without the ban to direct me (here's a thing I should probably do something about, as I don't intend to be on a shopping ban forever). So I reinstated my limits.

I want to enjoy my clothes, but I don't want to go back to having to prove how ~alternative~ I am by buying into a 'look'. And I don't want to spend hours online, fruitlessly searching for - what, exactly? I feel like an exciting, enchanted, magical life is out there, but I just don't know how to find it or create it. I have deduced, however, that it's not for sale on Etsy.

Instagram, Eco-Anxiety and Shopping Addiction: An Evil Tag Team

In June last year, I started taking more baby steps towards the kind of life I was dreaming about. I hadn't even particularly realised, until I started reading back through my journals looking for blog material, how my life had started to change since I quit overshopping. I tried to explain it to Dai the other day, but I'm not sure I managed to express myself terribly well. I had kind of been hoping that the uptick in my sense of wellbeing and my growth in self-esteem was noticeable to people around me, but I think perhaps it has been more of an internal shift.

Although I wasn't necessarily aware of it at the time, I was starting to experience for myself the truth of Kyle Chaka's words about beauty being found in contingency and randomness, such as when I started picking up books from local community libraries and free book shops, which were springing up around my hometown like dandelions as people sought entertainment and connection during the pandemic. I deliberately chose books that looked interesting, but which I would likely have dismissed previously as 'not my genre'. It was really exciting to be open to possibility and expand my horizons in such a small and gentle way. 

On sunny afternoons we went foraging, and we ended up with so much homemade elderflower cordial that we were able to distribute bottles amongst family and friends. I was becoming aware of a new contentment, a peace of mind that I could never have purchased. I felt more connected to my loved ones - gift-giving had become a source of pleasure and joy rather than stress - and my enjoyment of nature and the outdoors was reaching new heights.

As the lockdown restrictions eased, my mum emailed me a special offer from Travelodge - budget prices from July, so I booked three days in the village of Glastonbury, one of my favourite places, for me, Dai and the Spud.

Towards the end of June, through my work with Greenpeace I ended up taking part in the Climate Coalition's The Time Is Now mass virtual lobby, for which I had to take part in a Zoom meeting with my MP (he's a prick). The day before the meeting I was shitting a brick - I'd actually initially chickened out of setting up a meeting but then decided I'd better walk my talk. I made a page of notes from Greenpeace's briefing and asks, and I was very glad that I had, because in the event, of the twenty people in my constituency who had signed up to attend, no one appeared but me! (One other lady tuned in twenty minutes late; I have never been so glad for the presence of a stranger.)

It was absolutely terrifying. I was shaking, and my voice went really high-pitched, but I delivered the list of asks and managed to mention some quite frightening statistics I had learned about how nature-deprived the UK is compared to the rest of Europe, and the sorry state of our tree cover, and also how lifeless and meek the government seems to be with regards to the climate emergency. The Climate Coalition host sent an email afterwards saying that I and the other lady had done 'incredibly', and that ours was the only meeting where only one person turned up at the start (great...). I was really proud of myself, and glad I'd done it.

In July, the evil tag team of Instagram, eco-anxiety and shopping addiction came barrelling into my life. I'd set up an Instagram account to document my no-buy year - I hoped it would keep me accountable, and it obviously seemed like a good idea at the time.

It wasn't.

Inspired by my new online community of eco-friends (their word, not mine!) I started trying to radically overhaul our life. Now, I do think that cloth nappies, organic veg boxes, natural cosmetics, growing vegetables, foraging, composting, crafting, bamboo toilet paper, home baking, charcoal water filters, toy libraries, visible mending, natural dyes, bee saver kits and so forth are all good things... However, trying to invest in and do all of these things in the space of a single month exploded my budget and didn't do my peace of mind many favours either. I was also spending a couple of hours each day on Instagram, which brought my mood down without fail. Everything I was doing still didn't feel like enough. At first I enjoyed being part of an eco community, but after a while, every time I picked up my phone I felt like I was being bludgeoned with more things I ought to be doing.

I found it slightly alarming at times that I'd suddenly become this person who cooks and darns things and grows vegetables and gets excited about birds. I'd become the baggy-fleece-wearing sandal-clad make-up-free mum type I would have heaped scorn on as an arsey teenager. Adding the pressure to promote my new lifestyle on social media and also change the world by buying everything marketed as 'sustainable' was overdoing it, and I was soon knocked for six by a vicious migraine, as if to make sure I got the point.

Yes, I was extremely worried - terrified, actually - about the climate. But sustainability isn't simply something you buy, and blowing my recently restored savings wasn't going to save the human race all by itself (sadly). I do believe in supporting the supply chains that try to do good things and mitigate the bad, but I also believe in buying less. And I didn't want to undo the positive changes in my own life that had been wrought simply by shopping less. 

So I got Dai to change my Instagram password, and deleted the app. I tried to go easy on myself - I didn't screw up the environment by myself, and I can't magically fix it either.

And we went out foraging for blackberries and elderberries to make our first wine. I wanted to stay anchored in the world around me, the world that over the last few months had filled up with colour, as if I was coming back to life instead of just getting out of my own head.

How To Tell If the Universe Hates Your Minimalist Wardrobe

May 2020 marked the end of my first attempted shopping ban. Frankly I was surprised I'd remained interested and motivated for a whole year - including keeping notes in my journal every day! 

The funny thing is, I'm not sure that at this point I was any more secure in terms of 'personal style' than I had been at the beginning. But I was happier, calmer, gradually becoming more creative, and much better with money. I still had quite some way to go, granted, but I spent some time just feeling proud of myself and how far I'd come. I'd learned not only to live within my means but to enjoy it and to thrive.

At the beginning of May, I was fed up with my endless routine of thinking (and feeling bad) about my clothes - keep, go, mend, donate, bag up, unbag, test, try, restyle, repeat til fade. It was all congealing into a major mound of annoyance and decision fatigue and I wanted a break from dealing with it for a while. So I packed away the vast majority of my wardrobe - around 200 items at the time - and embarked on Project 333, wherein you wear only 33 items for 3 months.

Yet on day one of my 33-item wardrobe experiment, the Spud climbed into my lap and joggled my arm at an inopportune moment, spilling coffee down the front of my hoodie. On day two, I got my first period in eighteen months, which turned several of my potential bottom-half garments into uncomfortable prospects. 

On day three, my comparison fever reared its ugly head for the first time in months after encountering a well-dressed older woman with quirky, colourful style. I ended up on Pinterest, that hellhole, spent ages on it, then got bored and cross and remembered why I'm great the way I am. 

On day four, I was about convinced that the universe was trying to tell me something when a bird shat on my cardigan. 

I gave up and unpacked the rest of my wardrobe. You can't argue with a message like that.

My comparison stumbling block had got me thinking. I'd been feeling a bit worried because I didn't seem to know exactly what I like any more. My tastes had shifted without my noticing somewhere along the line, perhaps as part of getting older. But I was hoping that as I go along, curating - to use one of the media buzzwords of the moment - and carefully accumulating the right things and discarding the excess, it will all eventually come together. It doesn't matter if I can't make sense of it all right now - as long as I stay open, authentic and notice my honest feelings about stuff (check out that band regardless of whether you historically listen to that genre, read that book if it excites you even if it's not 'relevant', don't watch the movie that you're really not interested in even though everyone else is raving about it, if you never ever wear those shoes don't keep them), I'll get there. It's not as though I have to sum it all up and put a label on it (or, heaven forbid, a hashtag). 

I just hate uncertainty and change. I want everything about me to be static, finished and complete. But that's not the way it works. We grow and learn, change our perspectives and opinions, open up to new possibilities. I need to stop trying to BE something, accept who I am and let it ebb and flow organically - instead of trying to force it into a shape so I can define it.

It was as though I couldn't stop thinking about THINGS in one form or another - how many, how few, how do they define me, what should I own, what should I own next, tomorrow, next week, next year?

I came across a couple of quotes from Kyle Chaka's book The Longing For Less that held resonance for me: "One act of will is to erase everything that's already around you, washing it clean and starting again so that the only things left are those you choose, which is the standard practice of minimalism. This is a simple way to build a sense of self. You are what you include... But favouring control leaves no room for surprises. A more difficult, perhaps more deeply satisfying method is to embrace contingency and randomness, accepting that life is a compromise between what exists and what you want, and beauty is found not by imposition but through an absence of control."

 And, "Minimalism is thus a kind of last resort. When we can't control our material security or life path, the only possibility left is to lower our expectations to the point where they're easier to achieve." 

Over the next year, I decided that I wanted to knuckle down with staying off the internet - or at least, those bits of it that seem to muddle my sense of self and diminish my imagination - and tackle those lingering shopping behaviours, such as browsing for things to buy 'in future'. I don't need to know right now what exact jeans I will buy when my current ones wear out!

In the end, I quit Project 333 because I wanted to make use of what I have, not just jettison stuff to meet an arbitrary goal of minimalism (you don't actually get rid of the rest of your stuff to do 333, but I was looking for things I could cast off). I agree with the principle of simplicity, but I don't think that the way to get there is to focus harder on my stuff.

In May, I also spent a bit of time looking at the Humans of New York website. It reminds me that what I'm wearing is the least interesting thing about me, and provides a good antidote to comparison thinking. Everyone's story is unique, each one worthwhile.

The Importance of Self-Care, Illustrated in Ten Scenes From A Life

[Content warnings: attempted suicide, eating disorders]

10. Rock bottom

After taking the overdose, I drift in and out of consciousness for three days - between pain - gut-wrenching, full-body cramping, a nauseating twisting sensation in my abdomen as if some vengeful god is wringing me out like a flannel - and total emptiness. 

On the fourth morning I get up and go to work. I write a post for my blog. I see my boyfriend. Everything is normal and nobody knows.

9. Self-loathing 

I have eaten three lychees and a black coffee. I have walked for an hour and done two exercise videos. In the fourth hour of aerobics, I faint. As I pick myself up off the floor, I curse myself for being so weak.

8. Operation Beautiful

In my lunch hour I am dicking around on the office computer when I come across something called Operation Beautiful (the site is now sadly defunct, but there is a book). I am transfixed. I am brought to tears by the simple act of women leaving kind messages for each other on changing room mirrors. 

The messages seem to land inside me with a thud.

 "Your weight does not dictate your worth."

 "It's just a number."

 "You are beautiful."

 I start reading Operation Beautiful every day.

7. Chocolate

Halfway through my latest fast, something snaps. Before I know it I am in the larder. I eat an entire pack of chocolate brownies and they are delicious. 

The seventh brownie is in my mouth when I realise my mum's partner is in the kitchen. He hands me a king size milk chocolate bar and I eat that too.

6. Touch

I book myself a massage. At first I am embarrassed but I slowly learn to relax and float away. When I leave I book myself another appointment. And a facial.

5. Change

I bleach my hair. I get dreadlocks. I shave one side of my head. I cut my hair off and turn up at my hairdresser friend's house hoping she can save what's left. She sculpts it into a sleek bob. I dye it silver. Then lilac. Then blue. Then pink. I stop shaving my legs. I take up dance classes. I start singing again, but only when I think no one can hear me. 

4. Singledom 

I end my long-term relationship the night before I move out of my childhood home.

I spend the next night on a squeaky camp bed in the middle of a box maze, listening to the traffic, looking at the soft cream arch of the apartment ceiling and feeling my future expanding around me. 

3. Flings

I have three partners. They all know about each other and none of them are serious (or so I think).

I am encouraged to move to Melbourne and possibly become part of a polyamorous triad. I give the idea serious consideration, but luckily before I book any flights I realise I'm having far too good a time where I am and also I might have fallen in love a little bit with someone closer to home.

2. Nature

After having a baby I am low for a long time, but as he gets older we find our rhythm. Often we nap together. Every day we go for walks outside. I had forgotten how good it is to jump in puddles, to bask in the sun. We paddle in the river and eat wild apples. Our tongues are blackberry-purple from August till November. 

1. Care

If I am thirsty, I get myself a drink. If I am hungry, I eat. If I need space, I say so. If something hurts, I stop. 

This is progress. This is care.

One afternoon I am alone at our holiday cottage. Dai and the Spud have gone to fetch supplies for dinner. I haven't shaved in a week and the soft water has made me break out, but I put on my swimming costume and I walk down to the beach and I plunge into the sea.

The water is cold and I am unkempt and tired, but I am free and I feel my own resilience and I am so glad to be here, now.

Why I'm Grateful For My Clutter

A Sudden Desire For Less

The start of the first UK lockdown affected me very strangely. In the house all day with a lively toddler - except for our daily walk around the nature reserve, which I think kept us both sane - I suddenly felt sick of all the stuff we had around us. I started reading blogs and books about minimalism. I scrutinised everything in our home with an eagle eye. This throw may have been perfectly acceptable and useful as a lap blanket, but did it really bring me joy? Did it? DID IT?!

Every day Dai came home from work to find that more of our belongings had migrated to the cupboard under the stairs. I quoted Courtney Carver constantly and thought of Marie Kondo like a friend (Spark Joy is a lovely book). But, a few days later, I'd get weepy and emotional and put everything back. Then, waking up in the morning, I'd find my books and ornaments suddenly intolerable, and the whole thing would start again. I had to run out of the house in my sock feet early one day to retrieve some irreplaceable sentimental items from the recycling before the bin men arrived. This declutter/reclutter cycle, with its accompanying emotional highs and lows, went on for more than a month. 

I realised that there must be something about minimalism that kept me coming back, even when one failed declutter after another seemed to be saying that this lifestyle wasn't for me. It was true that the spartan aesthetic so often associated with minimalism didn't capture my imagination. Besides, we'd experienced that form of sparse, modern, neutral style in our council estate house for the first few weeks after we moved in, and the effect was grim. Like living in a beige shoebox. If we'd had a mountain or beach vista outside our windows it might have worked, but a car park and bus stop view really added nothing to the ambience of the place. I had been glad to put up art on the walls, buy some cheery yellow sofa cushions and wall stickers just to brighten the place up. We'd decided against painting the walls, except the Spud's nursery, which was vibrant turquoise, as after the wedding we were planning to look for somewhere else to live. In the meantime, the extraneous ornaments, photographs and other "clutter" had made the place a bit more cosy. 

A Different Tack

After bagging up my CDs, childhood toys, Tarot cards, excess clothing and art supplies - and then putting them back again - for what I hoped would be the final time, I realised that a different approach was needed. I had no problem parting with DVDs we hadn't enjoyed or passing on clothes that didn't fit any more, but my awareness of the environmental crisis that our excess consumption was creating meant I really didn't like being wasteful. If I could use something, I wanted to use it. 

I was also forced to admit that I didn't want to get rid of sentimental items. I had pared down my photos and let go of those things I no longer felt any attachment to, but just as I didn't want bare walls and a Spartan home, I also didn't want to get rid of all my childhood toys or gifts from loved ones. When I realised this, I unboxed my oldest toys and arranged them on top of my wardrobe where I could see them and enjoy them. These were not "clutter", these were things I treasured, and trying to force myself to get rid of them was only causing me stress and upset.

I had to trust myself to recognise what really was extraneous. And I didn't want to just swamp the charity shops with my castoffs, either. I began approaching my unwanted items with a "rehoming" mindset - would a friend like this book? Would my mum wear this jumper? Could I sell this doll on eBay (and get some extra money into the bargain)? Yes, it took longer, but I felt that taking this time and effort was a step in the direction of taking responsibility for my consumer excess. It was instilling the lesson of caring for my belongings - of not participating in a throwaway culture - in a way that a big declutter and a trip to the Salvation Army never had. 

So why did I keep coming back to the concept of minimalism? Clearly I was never going to own less than 100 items (or whatever), and I was no longer invested in decluttering in favour of using, wearing out or rehoming. 

Marie Kondo suggests that we start by forming a vision of the kind of life we want. Well, I had tried and tried, and frankly had no idea. Pinterest boards only made me more confused. Apparently I liked most things - a cluttered bookshelf here, a folksy narrow boat there, a country cottage decked in florals, a sleek Copenhagen apartment. Once again, I had to look beyond the stuff. What was the appeal of these images? They told me I valued a pleasant home, simple joys, a sense of freedom, creativity and self-expression.

That was a start. I could see then that I kept coming back to those minimalist bloggers and writers because their work provoked a sense of expansiveness, of prioritising something more than things.

Then I knew what my next step was. My shopping ban was still the most important part of my plan - a pause in the influx of new things, a breathing space. Next, I too had to start prioritising something other than things. Decluttering had seemed like the answer, but it was still a focus on STUFF. 

I knew that writing regularly, a habit I had long neglected, could begin to fulfil the need for creativity and expression. But what about that freedom and expansiveness? How could I get some of that without buying things OR throwing them away? I thought about the minimalist books and blogs I had read, and I decided that next I would focus on my health. I hadn't really exercised in years. Perhaps a regular yoga practise could bring a feeling of expansiveness to my physical body? I started rolling out my mat on the patio in the mornings, although my son did like to drive his lorries underneath me or sit on my head. And perhaps walking in nature, or learning a new craft, or finally picking up my guitar again, would give me freedom? 

It's still a work in progress, but I've stopped wanting to get rid of everything my eyes rest on! I taught myself to spin yarn (I had a drop spindle and some wool roving kicking around that I bought on impulse at a Christmas market), and to cook and darn. I grew my first crop of vegetables in our garden (radicchio and Swiss chard). Between keeping my hands and mind busy, and actually using the things I had been keeping hidden away in the cupboards, I soothed my agitated lockdown brain and was able to create instead of consume. 

I'm hoping that as things wear out, are used up, or otherwise cease to be useful and are passed on, I will gradually reach a balance point, a place of "enoughness". But for now I'm happy with my clutter, and grateful for the abundance that I have.