I’ve tried minimalism. I really did. Clean surfaces, capsule wardrobes, muted tones, there’s something undeniably beautiful about it. But no matter how many decluttering videos I watched or how many tote bags I gave away, I kept coming back to the same truth: I like my mess.

Not the overwhelming kind, the kind that grows slowly, takes up corners, and carries memories. A stack of half-filled notebooks. Clothes that don’t quite match but still feel like me. A pinboard with way too many layers of photos and ticket stubs. It’s visual noise, but it’s my noise.

Minimalism often promises clarity. But for some of us, comfort doesn’t come from empty drawers or clean white walls. It comes from texture, variety, contradiction. From being able to look around and remember how each thing arrived in your life.

Living with more doesn’t always mean chasing more. It can mean holding on, surrounding yourself with things that reflect back the cluttered, colorful reality of how you think and feel. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

I’ll never be that minimalist girl, and I’ve stopped trying to become her. There’s peace in letting my space reflect who I am, even if it’s a little loud, a little scattered, and entirely mine.