Every morning, I sit at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee and take a deep breath of gratitude. I look around at the open, airy spaces. The clean counters and floors. Even with a full house—Justin and I have five children—there’s no mess, no clutter. Everything has breathing room, especially me.
It’s not because I’m an amazing housekeeper or a perfect wife and mom. I feel at peace because our house wasn’t always like this…. I wasn’t always like this. It took getting rid of 75 percent of our belongings. And more important, letting go of what was cluttering my soul so I could clear space for God.
I grew up in small-town Pella, Iowa. My mom stayed home with my two brothers and me, and my dad worked in window sales. I had a great childhood—faith and family were everything—but my parents didn’t have the budget for extras.
That’s where my maternal grandmother came in. She called me her favorite granddaughter and spoiled me like crazy. “Is that my Julia Ann?” she’d say when she saw me. I’d squeal with delight as she handed me a new doll or toy. In my teens, we grew even closer. We’d stroll the malls for hours, and Grandma would buy me special gifts. “Just making sure you don’t want for anything,” she said. Accumulating possessions made me feel secure and cared for. More stuff equaled more happiness.
That mindset stayed with me when I went to college, though the shopping trips were curtailed. My senior year at William Jewell College in Missouri, where I played on the softball team, I met Justin, another senior. He played baseball, and we clicked. Like me, Justin was big on faith and church.
A few months after graduation, Grandma passed away. I was inconsolable. Too hurt to turn to God. Instead, I hit the mall. I signed up for my first credit card. What my entry-level job couldn’t cover, my credit card could. To numb my grief, I’d buy things Grandma would’ve wanted and linger in stores, trying to catch a whiff of her favorite Elizabeth Taylor perfume. Shopping was a dopamine rush. A bandage for my broken heart.
Justin and I got married three years after college. He had a demanding job in insurance, and I got my master’s, then worked full-time as a speech pathologist. My dream, though, was to be a stay-at-home mom. We made good money, and once we had our first daughter, Eva, there was more to acquire: baby clothes and gear, nursery furniture, toys. Just as I’d done while grieving Grandma, anytime I had intense feelings—frustration over work, anxiety about being a first-time mom—I buried them with spending.
At church on Sundays, I was distracted by other women’s outfits. I’d see things I thought I needed—a silky blouse, elegant earrings, a trendy purse. Then I’d spend the entire service thinking about how to find a good deal on a similar item. Sometimes we’d even go shopping after church. Our house exploded with stuff.
“We’ve got a big credit-card bill to pay,” Justin said once. “Know what we spent online last month?”
“I don’t want to know,” I said. The numbers gave me anxiety. That’s why Justin took care of the bills. We kept making the minimum payments and buying—more toys, more clothes, more everything. I took Eva to Walmart every week, and I loved seeing her eyes light up at the displays of new toys.
Seven months after our second daughter, Elena, was born, I left my job to become a stay-at-home mom. My dream. Yet instead of contentment, I felt distracted and overwhelmed. I couldn’t seem to manage all the stuff in our house, no matter how hard I tried.
I mentioned to my ob-gyn that I was stressed, and he wrote me a prescription for an antidepressant, saying that I had postpartum depression. I didn’t take the medication. Deep down, I knew my problem wasn’t depression. Our debt, which had ballooned to $40,000, weighed on me. I’d spend to mask my anxiety, which led to more debt, more anxiety. A vicious cycle.
I started seeing a therapist for my anxiety but was too embarrassed to admit to her how much debt we had. And I was too ashamed to tell Justin how overwhelmed I felt. Most of all, I was too ashamed to talk to God.
One morning while Eva was at preschool, I sat in the nursery feeding Elena. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating everything in the room. An unused crib filled to the brim with baby clothes. A jumble of plastic light-up toys. Rolls of wrapping paper. Justin’s golf clubs in the corner. A tangled Slinky. So much stuff.
It set my nerves on edge. Instantly I felt guilty. Why couldn’t I just be happy? I had everything I’d ever wanted. A loving marriage, two beautiful daughters, this big house filled with nice things. But staring at the mess, I couldn’t hold my feelings in. “This isn’t what I signed up for!” I shouted, my voice echoing against the nursery walls. “Something needs to change.”
I turned away from the chaos. That’s when I spotted a Bible on the nightstand. I flipped it open. Something in Luke, chapter 12, jumped out at me: Jesus told a crowd, “One’s life does not consist of possessions,” then spoke of being “rich in what matters to God.”
Did I even know what mattered to God? When had I last actually talked to him? Clearly, I had a lot to think about.
Two days later, I had another therapy appointment. I dropped off Eva at preschool and brought Elena with me, her diaper bag slung over my shoulder.
“I’m deep in debt and beyond overwhelmed,” I confessed. “I want a better life for our family.”
My therapist looked at the diaper bag, jam-packed with extra clothes, snacks and toys. “Julia,” she said, “have you ever heard of minimalism?”
“Oh, like houses with stark white walls and nothing in them?”
“It’s more than that. Look into it.”
In the car, I googled minimalism. “If your possessions aren’t used or loved, let them go,” one article read. “Minimalism is really about making room for God and realigning your heart with what matters.”
There it was again. What matters…
“I think we should try minimalism,” I told Justin when he got home.
“You want to try what?” he said with a laugh. “Julia, you love shopping!”
I couldn’t blame Justin for laughing. I hadn’t been honest with him.
“I never brought this up because I was too ashamed,” I said. “You work so hard to provide us with nice things, but all our stuff is causing me horrible anxiety. I’m distracted from you, from the kids…from God.”
Justin was quiet for a moment. “I see what you mean,” he said. “We’ve gotten caught up in consumerism and let what’s important fall away. If you want to give minimalism a go, I’m all in.”
I’d read that it was best to start off in a small space. The next day, I tackled the kitchen junk drawer. Here goes, I thought, pulling it open. Papers and sticky notes spilled out. Immediately, I wanted to hop on Amazon and click “add to cart” on something, just to get a rush. No more stuff! I told myself. Little by little, I cleared that drawer— throwing away old receipts and flyers, putting pens in a holder on the counter. It felt good. But the thought of doing that to every space was paralyzing.
Eva came up to me, her arms full of clothes, blankets and costume jewelry. I handed her a small bag, and we went to her room. “Some kids don’t have any toys. Do you have anything you’d like to give them?” She nodded and put stuffed animals and puzzles into the bag. Her room felt lighter; I did too.
That gave me the momentum to declutter other rooms. If we didn’t use an item, I put it in a donation bin. Over the next few weeks, the energy in the house shifted. I realized I hadn’t gone shopping other than for groceries.
“It’s so much calmer in here,” Justin said, coming into the kitchen one morning to say goodbye before work.
Our house was calmer, but something inside me still felt restless. Maybe I needed to work on my inner clutter too. Opening up to my therapist and my husband was a start. Where to go from there?
Now that my kitchen table was clear, I had an idea. I sat down with a cup of coffee and imagined Jesus sitting right there, across from me. Lord, I’m sorry I lost sight of you amid all the stuff, I prayed. Help make more room for you, in my home and in my heart.
A verse I remembered from church came to mind. Genesis 28:16. “When Jacob awoke from his sleep, he thought, ‘Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it.’”
I’d been too busy burying my emotions in shopping to be aware of God’s presence, surrounding myself with possessions so I could feel taken care of. Yet even when I turned away from him, God watched over me. I took a deep breath and said, “Thank you, Lord.”
Kitchen table chats with Jesus became my new morning routine. On Sundays, I listened to our pastor’s sermon instead of checking out other women’s outfits. Day by day, my desire to buy more gave way to a gratefulness for what I already had.
Over the course of a year, 75 percent of our possessions went packing, along with thousands of dollars of debt. Seven years later, we’re still living minimally, in a new, smaller home.
That’s why I take time every morning to look around and take a deep breath of gratitude. It reminds me that not only am I rich in what matters but I also have room for what matters. For my husband, our children and the One who truly takes care of all our needs.
Julia Ubbenga is the author of Declutter Your Heart and Your Home: How a Minimalist Life Yields Maximum Joy (2025, Zondervan).
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