The Problem with Wanting Less

I think I want a quiet life. Not the kind where you move to a farm, start naming chickens, and wear nothing but linen and hemp—but something calm and steady. A life where I’m not constantly questioning every little thing I do, wondering if this mug or that meaningless book about Bauhaus art is finally going to make my place feel “right.” It’s exhausting. And, to be honest, I’m over it.

But here’s the thing: even wanting less feels impossible, and I don’t even think that’s the answer. We live in a world that’s constantly shouting at us to do more, buy more, optimize more. Wanting less should feel like an escape, but instead, it just feels like another trap. Like trying to curate some “Design Within Reach” minimalist hellscape. Every time I try to simplify, I find myself spiraling about whether I’m doing it the “right” way. Will this candle bring me peace? Does this West Elm chair make my space feel intentional? Am I overthinking a lamp? (Spoiler: yes.)

This isn’t just about me, though. It feels like a symptom of something bigger. Everywhere I look, there’s this relentless push to curate every aspect of our lives into something that can be packaged and shared. We can’t even sit at a coffee shop without turning it into some aesthetic Insta post, zooming in on a corner of a croissant. Homes aren’t just places to live anymore—they have to be reflections of our taste, our values, our entire personalities. Social media makes it worse. You can’t even buy a toaster without wondering if it fits your aesthetic. It’s like we’ve turned the pursuit of a good life into a branding exercise, and no one knows how to stop.

Take shopping, for example. On one level, I know no lamp, sweater, or book is going to fix my life. On another level, it’s hard not to hope that maybe, just maybe, the next purchase will be the one that clicks everything into place. That Bauhaus book I’ll never read? Maybe it’ll make my bookshelf look smarter. That overpriced mug? Maybe it’ll make mornings feel magical. But it never does. Instead, I’m left with stuff—stuff I don’t need, stuff that doesn’t deliver on its silent promise of transformation, stuff that quietly mocks me for believing it could and the worst part is I don’t even like the stuff that much and will throw it out in a year or two.

Sometimes, I think about Frog and Toad. Their little cottage looks cozy and lived-in, like they didn’t spend hours scrolling Etsy for “whimsical yet functional” decor. They’re not worried about whether their bookshelf says “intellectual yet approachable.” They’re just... existing. But then again, they’re frogs. They don’t have to deal with Instagram ads or an algorithm constantly suggesting another tote bag “to complete their vibe.”

It’s not that I want to live exactly like Frog and Toad. I’m not looking for some cottagecore fantasy where I drink tea by the fire in bespoke tweed trousers while my life looks perfect in every corner. What I want is something real. A life that feels good when no one’s watching. But that feels harder and harder to achieve when everything around us feels so curated, so polished, so fake.

I’ve written before about how clothes that are too clean don’t feel right, and I think life works the same way. The things that matter—the homes, the routines, the small moments that feel like you—they take time to break in. You can’t shortcut your way to a life that feels lived-in. It’s something that builds slowly, through messy trial and error, until one day it clicks.

The problem is, we don’t want to wait for things to click. Nostalgia makes it worse. It convinces you that if you just buy the right lamp or find the perfect chair, you can recreate the cozy, meaningful life you think existed in the past. But nostalgia lies. It shows you the finished product without the years it took to get there. The bookshelves, the cozy corners—they weren’t curated overnight. They were shaped by time, mistakes, and probably some truly terrible rugs along the way.

That’s the real issue, I think. We want the good part without the process. We want the quiet, layered life without going through the messiness of building it. But the messiness is where life actually happens. It’s the awkward routines, the regret purchases, the moments that don’t make sense until years later.

Sometimes, I think about leaving it all behind—moving to a tiny flat in a sleepy village or a cottage in the Highlands where nothing ever happens. I’ve looked into it (more than I’d like to admit). But deep down, I know it’s not the answer. Jamie’s cottage in Love Actually looked peaceful, but he was still heartbroken and probably freezing. Even Frog and Toad probably argue about woodland property taxes. Moving doesn’t erase stress; it just swaps it for a different set of problems.

So where does that leave us?

I think the answer is learning to live with the mess. A good life isn’t something you wake up with one day. It’s something you build, slowly, awkwardly, one questionable lamp at a time. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe the charm of a quiet life isn’t in having it all figured out, but in figuring it out as you go.

At the end of the day, I’m not looking for perfection. I don’t need my life to look like a Pinterest board, my bookshelf to scream “sophisticated yet quirky,” or my wardrobe to look like I walked off a Drake’s catalog. What I want is something quieter, less performative. I want to stop overthinking every decision. To let my space, my routines, my life grow into themselves naturally—without trying to force it.

And maybe that’s the real issue we’re all facing. We’ve been taught to treat our lives like projects that can be optimized and improved, instead of something messy and human that grows over time. Maybe the quiet life isn’t about having the perfect lamp or the coziest sweater. Maybe it’s about letting go of the need to control it all and just letting life happen.

That’s what I’m trying to remind myself, anyway. Even if I don’t have Frog and Toad’s effortless vibe, Jamie’s French cottage, or some Pinterest-worthy flat, I’m figuring it out. Slowly, awkwardly, one regret purchase at a time.

And maybe that’s enough.

-EH