How much of what we call "ours" truly belongs to us?

I was scrolling through my photo library yesterday—thousands of images, most of them forgotten the moment after they were taken. We accumulate these digital artifacts as if possession itself creates meaning. But does owning more actually give us more?

This question extends far beyond photographs. We collect books we'll never read, clothes we'll never wear, connections on social media with people we'll never speak to again. The accumulation feels purposeful in the moment, as if we're building something. Yet the weight of all this having can become a burden rather than a blessing.

What if abundance is not measured by what we possess, but by what we can let go?

There's a peculiar freedom in traveling with only a backpack—a reminder that most of what fills our homes serves to fill a void we don't fully understand. The philosopher Epicurus suggested that natural and necessary desires are easily satisfied, while it's the unnecessary ones that breed endless craving. A warm meal satisfies hunger. A designer kitchen does not.

But here's where it gets complicated: I'm not advocating for ascetic minimalism or rejecting all comfort. The question isn't whether we should own things, but whether our things own us. Do we control our possessions, or do they dictate how we spend our time, energy, and attention?

Consider how we speak of our belongings. "I need to go home and feed my possessions"—we don't say this, yet we behave as if it's true. Objects demand maintenance, storage, insurance, anxiety about their loss or damage. The more we own, the more we must manage.

Perhaps the real luxury isn't having everything we want, but wanting only what we have. That shift—from accumulation to appreciation—changes everything. It transforms scarcity into sufficiency, discontent into gratitude.

What would remain if we stripped away everything we don't truly need? And what would that reveal about who we actually are?

#philosophy #minimalism #meaning #reflection