In mid-2001, I lived in a high-rise Seattle apartment, having returned to a second stint at Microsoft as a refugee of the dot-com bust in Silicon Valley. Over my time in the high-flying late-90s, I had accumulated a dizzying array of books, CDs, DVDs, and assorted knick-knacks from my world travels.

One of these knick-knacks was a set of 8 goblets that I had found in Istanbul on a business trip. I had the opportunity to experience Turkish culture in the way that most business travelers get to experience any foreign culture: a 1 hour block of time sandwiched between meetings. I had never haggled over anything in my life. But I had haggled with the shopkeeper because I was told this is what people do in Turkey. Eventually, I was the proud owner of 8 gold-rimmed, gold-based, glass Turkish goblets.

One morning in early 2003, I woke up in my cheap Ikea bed, surrounded by cheap Ikea bookcases brimming with all the books I had read or pretended to have read, and reached for my cheap Ikea nightstand to shut off my cheap alarm clock. I stumbled across the bedroom floor into the kitchen surrounded by all manner of gadgets and appliances and gizmos. I looked out onto my apartment filled with an oversized Ethan Allen sofa and loveseat, a ginormous rear projection television, a massive coffee table, a dining table and four chairs, an ornate pedestal lamp with matching table lamps, and the kind of tacky modern art that a 20-something would think is profound. I opened a cabinet and I saw my goblets, within each was a couple of centimeters of dust.

I asked myself: Why on earth did I ever buy those goblets? Come to think of it… I’m single, why do I need a dining table with four chairs? Why do I need a large sofa and loveseat? Why do I need enough books to fill a Barnes & Noble? Why do I have a collection of DVDs that I never watch? Why do I need anything in any of these rooms?

So I donated almost everything. I kept a mattress, my computer, an alarm clock, a copy of The Great Gatsby, and my television. Everything else was given to the American Society for the Blind, who came into my apartment, took everything, and left me and my four pound Yorkie with a massive play area. No more sofa. No more cheap Ikea crap. No more dishes. No more cutlery. No more gold-rimmed Turkish goblets.

I had shocked myself into a culture of minimalism, and I loved it. I loved the freedom that an uncluttered space gave me. Freedom to play with the puppy. Freedom to just lie down on the ground and stare out the window onto the Seattle cityscape. Freedom to close the blinds and sit in the middle of an empty, dark space and just think. It’s intoxicating. I understand how difficult it would be for a family with kids, but for me, a single guy living in an urban environment, it was perfect.