Not so minimalist, are we?

We really went from the “Marie Kondo aesthetic” to multiple keychains and decals everywhere, didn’t we?

I remember a conversation with a college classmate who said he couldn’t wait to move out of their house and have his own space—somewhere he could stretch without worrying about breaking things. His mother, in particular, loved collecting home decorations: wine glasses, teacups, ceramic balls, wooden statues, and more. It really did make the space feel cramped.

I had a similar conversation with a former professor who still lived with his mom. As he put it: “I couldn’t find my things with all the mess, but somehow, when I asked my mom about it, she could point out exactly where everything was.” He also said he dreamed of having a home that resembled modern coffee shops—dim lighting, simple furniture, and plenty of space to breathe.

These conversations happened during the peak of the “minimalist aesthetic” trend. Back then, people were sharing photos of their workspaces, kitchens, and bedrooms—all decorated in neutral tones and completely clutter-free. At that time, I also believed that less was more.

I can’t recall exactly when I started seeing reels about designing bedrooms with pastel colors, decorating with live or artificial plants, collecting trinkets, and stacking friendship bracelets. It went unnoticed at first, but gradually, maximalism took over.

While contemplating this shift, I thought back to what our home looked like when I was a child. We had a non-functioning cassette player with large speakers that stood as tall as a first grader. We also had a display rack divided into small squares, each housing a figurine. Some of these figurines were intricate glass carvings, snow globes, and ceramics, while others were empty candy cans, fast-food chain collectibles, and other random things. Our wooden chairs had cushions with ruffled covers that were a pain to remove on wash days. There were several picture frames and photo albums. Everything—and I mean everything—was difficult to clean.

Every Saturday, when we were kids, my brothers and I would take each figurine off its stand and place it in a basin of soapy water. When Mom was watching, we had to scrub each one with a wet cloth before transferring it to another basin of clean water. When she wasn’t looking, we’d just swish them around in the soapy water before rinsing and drying them. I always wondered back then: why did my mother love keeping small, hard-to-clean trinkets? And if she didn’t want them to get dirty, why display them at all?

When our house caught fire some years ago, most of my late mother’s collections were destroyed. Since then, we’ve moved around a lot, so we’ve had to live with only the essentials. We now use foldable beds instead of bed frames, space-saving sofas, three sets of curtains, four sets of bedding, and just enough plates, cups, and utensils for the family, with two extras. We sort through our clothes and dispose of the excess every year-end. More out of necessity than choice, we’ve been living the “less is more” lifestyle.

However, sometimes, when I sit in our living room or stay up late in my bedroom, I’m suddenly struck by the discomfort of how empty our spaces are. The walls are often bare. Our bedsheets are fitted, and you can always see under the bed due to the lack of a bed skirt. This isn’t the home I grew up in. Perhaps that home died with my mom—or burned down with the old house. I could be wrong, but I think the reason my mom kept those trinkets was that they reminded her of something. I may have seen those empty candy cans as rubbish, but to her, they brought back the smiles we shared when our father came home with those “pasalubong.” Maybe that’s why she couldn’t throw them away or hide them in storage.

My college friend started collecting books last year. He also developed a fascination with novelty mugs. The last time we had a video call, his room was packed with all sorts of things he’d collected. We often drop by variety stores and take note of what to buy once we have our own spaces. It’s safe to say we’re aging like our mothers.

While I cannot—and will not—generalize, for some of us, minimalism is our way of breaking free from our parents’ influence. Many of us grew up in homes filled with decorations and collectibles. Many of us had parents who “couldn’t let go” of things with sentimental value. For some, the yearning for empty spaces is a way to find new perspectives, to see ourselves more clearly outside all the things we used to clean around or tiptoe past. We want to be as far from those memories as possible—until the neatness starts to disturb us, until the emptiness gives room for nostalgia. Then we realize: trinkets are proof of life.

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Jenie Mae Dela Cruz Ate, 28, is a content writer. Apart from website content and blogs, she also writes fiction and poetry. She spends her spare time bonding with four furbabies.