Minimalism has become one of the most popular lifestyle trends globally, offering the promise of simplicity, clarity, and peace of mind. It sells the dream of cutting down clutter so life becomes more focused, intentional, and serene. But here’s the question — can this lifestyle truly take root in the average Filipino household? The answer — not quite.

The Filipino home — starting with my home — operates on an entirely different set of values shaped by history, practicality, family, and even faith.

Cabinets, closets and drawers hold old stuff like plastic containers, odd-looking gifts, birthday cards from years ago, and clothes from a decade past. This isn’t just clutter — it’s culture. We keep things for the “just-in-case” moments. An old electric fan may not work now, but who knows, we might need a part to fix another one. There’s a stack of extra plates in the pantry for times we have guests, but we’ve not had a party after the pandemic. There are unused handbags, event shirts, jackets stacked below hanging clothes which would be perfect as future gifts. This practice isn’t hoarding — it’s resourcefulness!

In many Filipino households, homes aren’t just for parents and kids. They’re for extended family, for the lola who moved in, the nephew studying in the city, or the cousin temporarily “boarding” while job-hunting. More people means more stuff. It’s not unusual for homes to hold layers of lives — three generations’ worth of belongings living side-by-side in harmony (or sometimes, chaos).

But even in my home, now the picture of an empty nest with my children already raising their own families in their own houses, I still find it stuffed with things from three generations — my parents, mine and my children. And I am not disposing of any of those things just yet.

That’s because my home, like many Filipino homes, is also a museum of memory. A figurine from a trip abroad with my children, a trophy for an outstanding performance from decades ago, faded photo albums, medals from a long-finished school year — these are not clutter; they are anchors of identity and family pride. Throwing them out feels like throwing away a part of myself or my ancestors.

I see objects as vessels of stories. The habit of keeping things is deeply emotional. It’s tied to remembering, honoring, and holding on to connections, especially in a country where people are often separated — whether by OFW work, migration, or urban-rural divides.

I look at an old t-shirt and I remember that to be my son’s first football shirt; I open a box of odds and ends and I remember the birthday parties of my children, now old enough to organize birthday parties for their own children. I pull out a leather bag which I have not used for decades, and I remember that was given to me by my mother and my father had brought it as “pasalubong” from a trip abroad.

Now that I am into car camping, I find that there are boxes of camping gear I do not use but cannot dispose because those were my son’s when he was still living with me. Even in the bathroom, there’s an old shower caddy that needs to be retired, yet it still hangs there because my son bought that from his first salary. And in the pantry, more stuff — extra coffee maker, rice cooker, fryer, food keepers — sit in their original boxes, waiting to be used or given away.

Each tell a story that brings back memories of the days my home was fully occupied, bustling with “hello, Mom,” and “see you later, Mom” and the front screen door banging to announce an arrival or departure.

For many, living minimally is simply impractical. Small homes force practicality over style. Closets are shared, kitchens do double duty as storage areas, and garages hold more than just cars — they hold life’s overflow.

But I am adapting the minimalist concept in my own way. I call it “practical minimalism.” I don’t throw everything out. I keep what is truly useful and brings me joy. I’ve learned how to let go of what burdens the home — the “just in case” things and the event shirts which I now give away as soon as it comes.

But the heart of minimalism can work for me. It simply takes a different shape: one where “less” doesn’t mean empty, but rather thoughtful. Where decluttering isn’t about aesthetics, but about creating space for joy, function, and future possibilities, like the children visiting and staying for days.