Year-end inventory
Here’s a not-so-fun (also quite shameful yet honest) fact that dawned on me a few days ago: there’s nothing quite like checking your bank balance, realizing you’re basically one croissant away from financial ruin, and thinking, Huh. Interesting plot twist before turning 35.
That was the moment a very unexpected kind of clarity hit me. The type that suddenly has you journaling at 3 a.m., debating whether to schedule therapy, or taking multiple reflective walks. “Je vais sur Paris pour flâner,” I found myself saying to B. But there I was, staring at my depleted savings, oddly, as I was appreciating my monthly salary that had just been credited to my account. “I… earn enough? Don’t I?”
The answer, by the way, is: technically yes, emotionally no, practically absolutely not.
And look, I could blame it on the rising cost of living, taxes, global instability, or the spiritual emptiness of late capitalism. But there’s also the quieter, far less glamorous truth: I’ve been impulsive. A little chaotic. A sort of mayor of Dopamine-Fueled Purchases City. A curator of “experiences,” sure, that I will never regret - but also… stuff. Too much stuff. How can a small apartment hold this many unnecessary things? I feel like I’m hearing myself speak from 2017. (Read: Why and how I embraced the minimalist lifestyle, 2017)
So I took inventory. Of everything. Well, almost.
Turns out, taking inventory of your things is also a sneaky way of taking inventory of yourself. Cheesy but true — and I have a lot to say about it, so buckle up.
Wardrobe Epiphanies
Read: Shrinking sweaters, expanding mindfulness, 2025
I started with my wardrobe. Easy. Quick. Concrete. Symbolic, right? Like the beginning of a makeover montage, except the soundtrack was just me sighing and rustling sweaters I forgot existed.
To my surprise, I realized I already have enough clothes for every season, every rare office day, every occasional social outing. Enough to mix, match, and rotate. Enough to pass as someone with a personal style.
I let go of a few aspirational pieces, the ones that promised a version of me that’s honestly too high-maintenance or simply… not me. But the rest — the many, many pieces I actually wear — stayed. And they were enough. There was something quietly comforting in that. Like I’d rediscovered a kind of sufficiency I didn’t know I’d already earned.
The Book Situation
Then came the books.
I’ve been in a reading slump deep enough to qualify as a personal era, and yet I walked out of a bookstore last weekend with two new titles because… hope? delusion? The aesthetic pleasure of paper?
But when I actually looked at my shelves — the living room ones holding my identity anchors, and the bedroom ones filled with “started but not finished,” “didn’t resonate but maybe someday,” and “still waiting their turn”, it hit me: I already have months of reading waiting for me. Years, if we count the ambitious ones.
I gave away short reads that no longer speak to me and set aside a few others for friends who might appreciate them more. And strangely, none of it felt like loss. It felt like alignment with who I’ve been, who I’m becoming, and who I no longer am.
Oh, Those Hygiene Products
Then I opened the bathroom cabinets.
Oh. Uh-oh.
Why do I own enough skincare products to moisturize a small village? Why do I have multiple bottles of face wash when one lasts a full year? Why did I buy four extra sunscreens when I’m technically someone who desperately needs more Vitamin D?
I have enough shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste, and creams to last eight seasons. Eight. That’s a stretch, but you get the point. I could hibernate through winter and emerge glowing without ever stepping into a store.
Makeup was even more humbling. I have one face and one set of lips. Why do I have all these lipsticks that I never reapply? I forget the moment I shut the apartment door. I have like 2 favorites, that should be enough, no? Suffice it to say, I vowed not to buy any more. My new habit now is: whenever I feel the urge to buy something and turn that want into a need, I put it on my wishlist and let it sit there for at least 30 days. And then I reassess, if I even remember then! More often than not, I forget about it. Also, another trick is to ask myself two questions:
Is it a heck yes?
Can I sleep knowing that I will go home without this, or I will wake up tomorrow without possessing it?
It usually works when I’m conscious enough to stop and think, which is actually more often than I would think.
None of this was malicious or catastrophically irresponsible. It was emotional or a quiet attempt to fill a void. That dopamine hit from checking out online. That attempt to soothe boredom masquerading as “lack.” That quick, hopeful flicker of maybe this will fix how I feel.
But the rush fades. The thing remains.
And then it accumulates.
And then, one day, you have three extra face washes and a savings account your 25-year-old self would be smug about, because even though she earned less, she somehow saved more. (Btw, I’m proud of you, 25-year-old Leni! How about we do 35-year-old version proud, ey?)
The Comfort of Enough
What surprised me most wasn’t the excess (though that was humbling) but the sheer abundance.
Real abundance. A quiet kind of validation.
I have enough. More than enough. And recognizing that brought not just relief, but peace.
Using things up to the last drop suddenly feels meaningful. Respectful. Like honoring the version of me who made those choices wisely or otherwise.
And the more I sort, categorize, and let go, the more adult I feel. In a grounded way, not the performative “look at my fancy routine” way.
Becoming the 35-Year-Old I Actually Want to Be
I can’t undo the impulsive spending I did. I can’t magically refill my savings by willpower or shame. But I can show up differently from now on.
This upcoming year — my 35th (sheesh!) — feels like an invitation to be even more intentional. Even more aligned. A whole lot less performative, less showing up as society expects me to. More “this is who I am,” not “this is who I think I should be.” In short, authentic.
Not minimalism for Instagram. Not frugality as punishment. But resourceful. And resourcefulness is one of my actual skills, lest I forget. A frugal year, not because I’m failing, but because I’m finally paying attention.
The takeaway: maybe real stability — perhaps even real wealth — is knowing and appreciating what you already have. Letting go of that scarcity mindset. We know this, sometimes we forget because we get so hung up on life. Hence, more mindfulness! Less reactive but more reflective, again, more mindful and intentional.
If there’s a moral here (without being obnoxious, I hope), it’s this:
Sometimes you don’t need a reinvention.
Sometimes you need an inventory.
Of your things, yes, sure. But perhaps also your habits, your impulses, your quiet longings, your unexamined clutter? I think mostly that. Again, nothing fancy, performative, or radical. Stick with what’s simple, something doable.
Because once you know what you have, you know what you don’t need. And maybe that’s when real abundance begins.
If you’ve made it this far to this rambling, do me a favor: check on me this time next year, or give me a nudge if I still haven’t snapped out of my emotional, impulsive purchases.