You know what? I used to think having stuff everywhere made our little apartment feel homey. Boy, was I wrong. After the divorce, when we moved into this 900-square-foot place, I basically threw everything up on the walls and called it decorated. Emma’s finger paintings next to a random landscape print I’d bought at Target, Lucas’s ceramic dinosaur from art class sitting next to a candle I never lit, and about fifteen different picture frames in completely different styles. It looked like a garage sale had exploded on my living room wall.
The breaking point came when my mom visited last spring. She walked in, looked around, and said with that tone only mothers can master, “Oh honey, it’s so… busy in here.” Busy. That’s mom-speak for “this looks terrible but I love you too much to say it directly.” And she was right – the place felt chaotic, just like everything else in my life at the time.
I’d been reading about minimalism out of pure desperation (seriously, when you’re drowning in clutter with two kids and working full-time, you’ll try anything), but I hadn’t really applied it to our walls and decorative stuff. I mean, I’d gotten rid of clothes and kitchen gadgets, but somehow I thought art was different. More important. More meaningful.
Turns out, most of it wasn’t meaningful at all. Half the stuff on my walls was there because I felt like walls needed to be covered, not because I actually loved looking at it. The other half was guilt purchases or things I’d kept because they seemed too nice to get rid of, even though they didn’t match anything else or reflect who we actually were as a family.
So one Saturday morning, after the kids went to their dad’s, I decided to tackle it. Started by taking literally everything off the walls and surfaces. Everything. The apartment looked weirdly empty but also… calmer somehow. Like it could finally breathe.
Then I made three piles on the dining room table: keep, donate, and maybe. The maybe pile was huge at first because I’m apparently really good at convincing myself that random decorative objects might be useful someday. That ceramic bowl shaped like a leaf that I’d never once put anything in? Maybe pile. The set of three identical candles I’d bought because they were on sale but never burned? Maybe pile. The framed quote about wine that I thought was funny when I was married but now just reminded me of arguments with Mike? Straight to donate.
The hardest part was dealing with the kids’ artwork. Emma had been in art classes since she was four, and I’d kept everything. Every single painting, drawing, and clay project. I felt like getting rid of any of it made me a terrible mother, but honestly? We had boxes of the stuff, and most of it was just taking up space rather than being displayed and appreciated.
I ended up keeping one special piece from each kid for each year – usually something they were particularly proud of or that really captured their personality at that age. The rest I photographed and then donated to a local preschool that could use art supplies. Emma was surprisingly okay with this when I explained it, especially when she realized her favorite pieces would actually be visible instead of buried in a pile.
For the grown-up art, I kept asking myself one question: “Does this make me happy when I look at it?” Not “Was it expensive?” or “Was it a gift?” or “Might I like it someday?” Just – does it make me happy right now, today, in this apartment, with these kids, in this life I’m actually living?
Most of the answer was no. That landscape painting? Pretty, but generic. Made me feel nothing. The motivational wall decal about living your best life? Honestly just stressed me out because it felt like pressure. The collection of small figurines on the bookshelf? Cute individually, but together they just looked cluttered and collected dust.
What I kept surprised me. The kids’ current favorite art pieces, obviously. A photo of my grandparents that I actually loved looking at, not just felt obligated to display. A small painting I’d bought at a local art fair that reminded me of Colorado mountains. A wooden sign Lucas had made in shop class that said “Mom’s Kitchen” in crooked letters – it was perfectly imperfect and made me smile every time.
That’s it. Seriously. From a wall covered in probably twenty different things, I kept maybe six items total. And you know what happened when I put them back up? The space looked intentional for the first time since we’d moved in. Each piece had room to breathe, and I could actually appreciate what I was looking at instead of my eyes darting around trying to process visual chaos.
The kids noticed immediately when they came back Sunday night. “Mom, why does the living room look bigger?” Emma asked. It wasn’t bigger, obviously, but it felt bigger because it wasn’t competing for attention with itself anymore. Lucas just said, “I can actually see my sign now!” which pretty much summed up the whole problem – when everything’s fighting for attention, nothing gets appreciated.
I’ll be honest, there were moments of doubt. The apartment felt too empty at first, like something was missing. I caught myself looking at the walls and thinking I should fill them up again. But after a few weeks, that feeling went away and was replaced by something much better – peace. I could walk into the living room and feel calm instead of overwhelmed.
The maintenance part has been easier than I expected. When the kids bring home new art projects, we look at them together and decide if they’re “wall-worthy” or “memory box worthy.” Most stuff goes in the memory box (a.k.a. gets photographed and recycled), but the special pieces get rotated into our display. Same rule applies to me – if I see something I want to buy for the walls, I have to decide what it would replace, not just where I could squeeze it in.
The biggest challenge has been family members who think our walls look “bare” now. Mike’s mom keeps buying us decorative stuff that doesn’t fit our space or style, and then gets offended when it doesn’t immediately appear on display. I’ve learned to say thank you, let the kids enjoy it for a bit, then quietly donate it when they lose interest. Sounds harsh, but I’m not going back to visual chaos to spare someone’s feelings about a ceramic rooster they thought was cute.
Christmas and birthdays are still tricky because people love giving decorative gifts, but I’ve started being more direct about what we actually need or want. When people ask what to get the kids, I suggest books or experiences instead of more stuff to display. Some relatives think I’m being difficult, but honestly? I’d rather be difficult than stressed out in my own home.
What I’ve realized is that having less stuff to look at actually makes me appreciate what I do have more. That photo of my grandparents gets my attention now instead of getting lost in clutter. Lucas’s crooked wooden sign makes me smile every day instead of disappearing into visual noise. Emma’s latest masterpiece gets the spotlight it deserves instead of competing with fifteen other things.
The whole process taught me something important about the difference between decoration and intention. Before, I was decorating – filling space because empty space felt wrong, buying things because they were pretty or cheap or seemed like something I should have. Now I’m being intentional – choosing things that actually mean something to our family and letting them have the space they need to make an impact.
It’s been almost a year since my great wall decluttering project, and I can honestly say it changed how our home feels. The apartment is the same size, but it feels more spacious and calm. Cleaning takes less time because there’s less stuff to dust and rearrange. Most importantly, the kids are learning that you don’t need tons of stuff to make a space feel like home – you just need the right stuff, displayed with intention and care.
Sometimes less really is more, even when more feels safer and easier. Especially then, actually.
Theresa’s a single mom in Denver who turned chaos into calm through minimalism. She writes candidly about raising kids with less stuff and more sanity—proof that simple living isn’t just possible, it’s necessary
