The Truth About Buying Less Stuff: Finding Freedom in Restraint

It always starts small. Innocent, even. An idle swipe on some gear resale group while waiting for water to boil. You tell yourself it’s just curiosity—just admiring the practical ingenuity of someone’s modded Jetboil, or searching for that one classic MSR stove model you almost bought in 2014. But within minutes, you’re six listings in, justifying a $40 hunk of scratched aluminum "in case you backpack next month," even though your weekends are already stacked and that long trail you daydream about is buried somewhere between excuses and your inbox.

And then it hits. That slow-crushing realization that even though you’re talking yourself into utility, what you’re really chasing is a feeling. The thrill of almost scoring. The satisfaction of sniffing out a ‘deal.’ That familiar hit of dopamine when the button lights up and the shipping info slides across your screen.

You think restraint is what got you here—look at me, being responsible, not buying the full-retail titanium version. But underneath the proud frugality is something twitchier, less flattering. A hunger. You were never looking for a stove. You were looking for something to break the dull monotony of Tuesday evening. Some tiny, low-stakes triumph to lift you out of the space between dinner and whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing with your life.

The weird part? You kinda know. Some part of you—I don’t care how small—knows this isn’t something you need, or even truly want. But you cling to the language of practicality to hush that quiet voice: Well, it folds up super compact. Could be good to have an extra one if someone forgets theirs. They don’t make this model anymore—it’s actually kind of hard to find.

Bullshit. You know it’s bullshit even as you whisper it to yourself.

We live in this economy of almosts. Almost buying something, almost justifying it, almost needing it. We stockpile duplicates of essentials that were never truly essential to begin with. We shop like preppers, except instead of beans and batteries, it’s niche gear we use three times a year and promptly forget in the garage behind last summer’s "upgrade."

And don’t get me wrong—gear obsession runs deep. I’ve been there. I have duffel scars and bashed thumbs from revolting zippers to prove it. I get the draw. The hypnotic poetry of well-designed tools, the imagined adventures you map just by holding something in your hands. But here’s the thing we rarely say out loud: every purchase is a promise we usually break.

That ultralight shell you swore you’d use more often? That bag you "invested in" because it would "last forever"? They sit. Just like the camp stove you didn’t need to replace, but suddenly wanted to, after watching a stranger use theirs in some filtered backcountry photo with more mountain than cloud.

But we rarely look that in the face. Instead, we reward ourselves for restraint with different kinds of purchases. Mini wins. Budget fixes. "Deals." As if buying less expensive things is somehow the same as buying things we actually need.

It isn’t.

Buying less stuff—that’s the challenge. Not just buying cheaper stuff. Not just avoiding full retail. It’s staring down that hunger and being honest about what it’s really feeding. Is it adventure, or is it just anxiety? Is it purpose, or just temporary novelty?

Moments of stillness are hard. We’re not wired to sit inside them without twitching. Capitalism makes sure of that. It’s built to feed on your minor discomforts. Cold feet? Here’s a new base layer. Lonely night at home? Start a gear list for a trip you won’t take. Feeling anxious about everything you haven’t accomplished yet? Maybe a slick new headlamp will make you feel more prepared, more in control, more the version of yourself you’re always marketing on social media.

I’m not saying don’t ever buy anything. I’d be a hypocrite if I did.

But maybe ask yourself next time—why now? What am I really looking for in this scroll? New chapters don’t usually arrive in shipping boxes. They start when you start. When you learn the difference between wanting something and simply wanting to feel something. That’s the edge most of us ride, without realizing it. That blurry line between utility and escapism.

Walking away feels weird at first. Like you’re missing out. Like the chance might not come again. But here’s a truth I’ve stumbled into more than once: if something’s worth having, it’ll still be worth it when you’re not tired, lonely, or bored. If it’s not, well, you just saved yourself more than $40.

You saved yourself from becoming someone who buries uncertainty under crap they don’t need and calls it progress.