My Friend Is Moving Away

This week, I’m sharing an essay about the life changes we don’t choose and how to navigate them gracefully. In a follow up to last week’s exploration of the value of nothing, this story looks at minimalism, friendship and how to find the middle ground during transitional times. c/o Regan Vercruysse via Flickr

When I was 24, I learned about the concept of minimalism and decided I was only going to own 100 items. I don’t know where I got this number, but it sounded stable and whole, the way I wanted my life to feel. 

At the time I lived in the East Village in a bedroom not much bigger than a parking space. I barely spent any time in that room except when I was sleeping, and even then, I didn’t sleep much. My life was a whirlwind of work and restlessness, and restricting myself to 100 items was my attempt to impose order. It gave me a sense of freedom and agency at a time when I felt like my life didn’t totally belong to me. 

I was proud of my spartan lifestyle, and on rare occasions when I socialized, I was that unbearable person who bragged about being a minimalist. Once at a party, I told a guy about how little I owned. “I can fit my whole life into one backpack,” I boasted. I expected him to be impressed by my self-sufficiency and the fact that I was so unattached I could run off at a moment’s notice. Instead, he was just confused. 

“Where are you running?” 

The question stung and made me feel exposed for who I truly am, a runner. And because I only owned a couple hundred items – I never whittled it down to that perfect 100 – I didn’t have much to hide behind. So, I kept running. 

In my late 20s, I moved to Berlin, a place where many lost souls end up clubbing the years away and working on art projects. I sublet apartments for a few months at a time, but none of the furniture was mine and my name was never on the door. I didn’t want to commit to the city, even for the weekend when I would buy the cheapest RyanAir flight and go anywhere just to get away. These trips were about seeing the world, sure, but they were also another way to avoid being present.  

I don’t know how long I would have kept living like that if I hadn’t met Julia. 

We met in an eight-week creative writing class, which already felt like a big commitment for my runaway lifestyle. Julia, on the other hand, was earthy and calm with blue eyes that pooled with curiosity. Her writing revealed a person deeply in touch with the natural world and her own spirituality. With time, I learned that she also spent years feeling adrift and living out of a backpack, but in the writing class, I only saw someone who knew how to listen and also had an incredible sweater collection. In fact, if Julia were an inanimate object she would be the highest quality merino wool: warm, gentle and radiating coziness. 

The first time I went over to her apartment, I asked to borrow a sweater.  She laid them out, one after the other, and it felt like that scene in The Great Gatsby where Jay Gatsby is showing Daisy his pile of shirts. “They’re such beautiful shirts,” Daisy says, overwhelmed by the bounty of linens and silks. “It makes me sad because I've never seen such—such beautiful shirts before.”

Seeing Julia’s sweaters was a little like that. They had a timeless quality, with textured threads and colorful stitching. I found it hard to choose one and couldn’t imagine allowing myself to have so many comforts. 

As we got to know each other better, Julia challenged my notions of simplicity. She showed me a softer side of Berlin with its creaky bookshops and tucked-away cafes. We took walks along the canal and went to the city’s old school movie theaters that serve the perfect mix of sweet and salty popcorn. Sometimes we’d comb through flea markets and vintage shops, but I still rarely let myself buy anything. 

“You need more clothes,” Julia would say, half teasing and half serious.

“I know,” I’d shrug. “I just like simplicity.”

But my views on minimalism began changing through our friendship. I learned that true minimalism, in the Buddhist sense, isn’t about restriction but creating space for inner abundance and clarity. By cleaning and clearing, we give ourselves an opportunity to find a mindful middle ground with neither too much nor too little.

I had told everyone, including myself, that living out of a backpack made life simple, but simplicity wasn’t the only thing guiding me. My desire to own nothing was also tangled up with an unwillingness to ground myself, a fear that if I put down roots I would get stuck and deep down, a feeling that even if I wanted to make a home, I didn’t deserve to have such stability.

Julia helped me unravel these fears, too. She encouraged me to adopt my dog, which helped me learn that caring for another being could ground me in ways I never imagined. When I went through a breakup that made me want to disappear more than run away, she helped me find a sunlit, alt-bau apartment with my name on the door. It was in this apartment that I started to find a middle ground. I filled the place with plants and vintage furniture. I took in two parakeets that needed a home. I quit drinking. I felt safe enough to build a home, even when the world outside was scary. 

Through hollow pandemic days, Julia and I took turns cooking at each other’s houses. We watched Julia Roberts movies from the nineties, did tarot readings and traded stories – both fiction writing and our own. These moments of stability, even during uncertain times, helped me be more present and taught me that my true home was in my connection to others and myself. When the world opened up, I carried that sense of home with me in my travels, including the road trips that Julia and I took through the Lake District and the Cotswolds, where we hiked from town to town and ended the days in fireside cafes that served steaming tea and fresh scones. 

I loved these trips, but I was always happy to return to Berlin, to my apartment and growing collection of things. It wasn’t just possessions waiting for me there. My home had also become a place where I made new friends, hosted visitors, and learned to love again – where my life finally felt like it belonged to me. 

As I’ve changed, so has Julia. In the past year, I’ve watched her become a mother, a transformation that’s brought out even wiser and more playful sides of her. This change, along with strides in her career, has given her a new compass for life. About a year ago, she told me she was planning to move away for work and also to be closer to family. By next week, she’ll have a new home. 

And even though I’ve had time to prepare, even though I know loving someone means allowing them to grow, the last few months have been hard. Unlike quitting a job or leaving a relationship, this is not a change I chose. These kinds of transitions can be difficult to honor, and I haven’t done the best at letting go gracefully. 

Last week, Julia invited friends over to take some of the clothes she wasn’t bringing with her. I wanted to go, but I imagined it being so different from the first time I went to her house and she showed me her sweaters. Instead of being an invitation and a beginning, the clothing event felt more like a shedding. The best version of me would have shown up and seen beauty in a ritual where friends all took pieces of her wardrobe home, but the me from last week just couldn’t face reality. 

But I’m going to have to face it. This is a season of life where, ready or not, I’m being asked to let go. Not in the way of disappearing or throwing myself away but in learning the true meaning of minimalism, finding a middle ground. 

The middle ground is the place where I can grieve my friend’s move and also celebrate her growth. It’s where I appreciate her for being an anchor in my life and also trust myself to be my own anchor. The middle ground is realizing that I deserve to have earthly comforts and also knowing my true home exists within me. Soon, Julia won’t live in Berlin anymore, but that doesn’t mean our friendship is ending. We’ll plan visits and support each other as we build new lives. She’ll still be just a phone call away and forever a thread in my life.