I was explaining minimalism to a group of people at a dinner when a guy sporting a post-workday suit-and-tie combo peered at me skeptically when I told them I have no goals.
Intrigue overtook his face. My life must’ve seemed so unrealistic to him since he was enmeshed in his corporate life. But that’s not his fault—two years ago it seemed unrealistic to me too: in 2009 my goal-oriented life, obsessed with achievement and to-do lists, was no different from his.
Then, his face still wrestling with doubt, he asked, “If you don’t have any goals, then aren’t you just being complacent?”
“Yes,” I answered, “if by complacent you mean content.”
Minimalism has helped me become happier, has helped me get rid of life’s excess and be happy with what I have, has helped me live a more meaningful life: I can now focus on what’s important, and I don’t have to “achieve” to be happy.
Sounds nice, doesn’t it? That’s because it is.
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