by Emily Ley
What I’ve discovered on this journey of simplifying and automating then course-correcting is that we sometimes miss something when we opt for the path of least resistance, the fastest way from point A to point B. Taking an hour to wash the family car together—the “analog” option, the less efficient option, in this instance—means taking an hour from your day. It means saying no to something else in order to say yes to this time together, to focusing on a task (and having some fun) together. It means valuing the journey, the experience—possibly even more than we value the end result. We gain so much when we opt to savor life rather than speed through it.
So tactically, how do you approach the less is more philosophy day-to-day? It all comes down to that elusive thing we’re all after: balance.
It’s this ghost of an idea that we can someday have everything managed and operating perfectly in our lives. It’s that thing we never really achieve. I’ve often said balance is like riding a bike. We lean left and right to stay upright and keep from face planting. Adopting a “less is more” attitude is the same. Some days, we find that washing the family car together would be a good activity, so we lean away from making dinner together (pizza night!). Some days we want to create memories with our kids by making lasagna together in the kitchen, so we run the car through the car wash. Some days work requires more of your attention than usual. So the kids get the joy of picking out a movie and popcorn to share at home. Some days work is slower, so we choose to read three bedtime stories to our kids.
Here’s the kicker: you can’t ebb and flow like that when your life is crammed full. There’s no wiggle room for flexibility when your days are packed to the very brim. Embracing the more of less is about giving yourself grace as you lean one way, then lean the other—achieving the life you’d like to create for your family in the long run, not the short. It’s when we focus on the short term that we fill our lives with too much and cannot thrive in the long term.
10
HOME
Less Stuff, More Treasures
For the year and a half that Bryan and I dated, before we were married, we lived eight hours apart. He lived in Tampa, Florida, and was pursuing a career in sales. He was the handsomest man I knew, clean-cut and dapper in a suit and tie every single morning. Bryan was driven, ambitious, and charming, climbing the corporate ladder, crushing sales goals, and thoroughly enjoying the city life. I was enamored with this fast, fun lifestyle that was so different than my own.
I lived in our hometown of Pensacola, Florida, at the time. It was small, growing, and quiet but was connected. Pensacola is part beach town and part quaint small-town-USA. Family was so important to me that I’d never considered venturing beyond the city limits.
One morning in early 2008, while visiting Bryan in Tampa, he asked me to marry him. I was asleep when he proposed. Sort of. He snuck into the room, gently woke me up, and asked me to be his wife. He said it was the only way he could surprise me—by practically asking me in my sleep. I was beyond surprised, and of course, said yes. We spent the next hour dreaming about our wedding and planning my move to Tampa. We were excited to be newlyweds in a city with so much life and opportunity. But we vowed to move home to Pensacola before we had children so we could raise them around family.
But life and kids and opportunities happened. Both of us were successful in our careers. Our kids went to great schools. And we’d made a great group of friends.
Still, underneath it all, something always felt off. Tampa never truly became home. Even though we sometimes talked about the idea of moving back to Pensacola, we knew we couldn’t make a change because Bryan’s industry didn’t exist there. So about six times a year, we traveled home to see family. Our kids became expert road trippers. We lived in two places at once—spending holidays and special moments with family back home and living our everyday lives in Tampa. It was exhausting. But it was all we knew, so we kept going.
Then, in late 2016, while visiting my family back home, we ended up with a kid-free afternoon. We parked our car downtown and walked from a favorite restaurant to a wonderful boutique coffee shop and then to the new brewery everyone was buzzing about, running into friends at every stop.
Something about Pensacola has always made me feel more like my actual self—and less like the girl I sometimes try to be. I’m rooted in Pensacola, and the city reminds me who I really, truly am inside. It’s comforting and effortless.
On a whim, Bryan suggested we go look at a few open lots he’d seen. Moving didn’t make sense at this time in our lives, but we loved real estate and would sometimes go look at houses or lots just for fun.
Before we knew it, we were standing on an unruly plot of land, shoes covered in dirt and stickers and sand, staring at each other with a knowing look on our faces. We were supposed to see the land, talk about how great or not-great it was, and move on to the next one. But in this particular space, on this particular piece of land, it felt almost as if God was stirring something inside us that we hadn’t allowed to be disturbed. The sensation was weird and wonderful . . . and also like we had stepped into a moment we’d been destined for all along. It was almost as if neither of us needed to say anything. I was thinking it was perfect. He was thinking it was perfect. And it made no sense to either of us.
And that past-due promise we’d made ten years prior hung in the air between us.
This imperfect plot of dirt beneath our feet held more promises than we could count. In some ways, the idea of moving home felt absolutely right. And in other ways, it absolutely did not add up. Bryan’s career. Our friends. Our kids’ friends. The house we adored back in Tampa.
Would we be stepping backward by moving from big, bustling city to smaller, sweeter town? Wasn’t some kind of badge of honor associated with fighting rush-hour traffic every day and being amid a constant hum of activity? The Super Bowl was played right down the street from us in Tampa, and Pensacola didn’t even have a Chipotle. What were we thinking considering closing a chapter on Bryan’s thriving and stable career and exploring (and risking) him pursuing his own entrepreneurial dreams?
We could have labored the decision for months. So much was on the line and so many factors needed to be considered. But there, in that one afternoon, standing on this accidentally discovered plot of dirt, we decided to finally keep the promise we’d made all those years ago.
We made an offer on the land.
It was time to go home.
MORE OF LESS
Moving our family from a big city to our small hometown was quite an adventure. A lot of feelings were involved—for everyone. It was scary and exciting and hopeful all at once.
For nearly a year and a half, we crafted our forever home. We carefully selected grass cloth for the entryway walls to create feelings of warmth and welcome. We planned lower ceilings than the grand two-story ceilings in our previous home to bring the living space down a bit and create feelings of coziness. I decreased the size of my home office by over half so I could have a simpler workspace for my business, perfect for writing and designing. Materials chosen in soft shades of greys and blues were paired with hints of antiqued brass and weathered wood.
I had one very specific, non-negotiable request for our home: a long kitchen table, surrounded by windows, that could seat our entire extended family. To date, my favorite memory in our new home has been watching kids and grown-ups, friends and neighbors, all pile into our banquette to enjoy a meal. On one side is a bench, and surrounding the other three sides are chairs. There really aren’t designated place settings, so everyone just kind of squeezes in. A giant pot of spaghetti is passed around, salad is dished out by grown-ups, and little hands reach impatiently across the table for another piece of bread and more butter.
This is the noise I’ve searched for all along. This noise, above the chirps of my phone and the dings of the computer, louder than the billboards on I-75 and the commercials on all three hundred TV channels, is the sound of the simplified life we dreamed of. This type of chaos
is life-giving, not life-draining.
Home—no matter the size, shape, or style—is more important than ever. We made the decision to move our family to our favorite town for a purpose. Raising our children around family, creating experiences, and cultivating childhood at a slower pace was more important than anything else a city could offer our family.
And we sacrificed to get here, or so it seemed in the beginning. But now our schedules are more flexible, our kids are more connected, and our weekends are filled with potlucks, cookouts, and soccer games. Everyone here seems to know everyone, and there’s a deep, abiding comfort in that.
Moving home was a big decision. And it was a calculated, planned, and beautiful one. We intentionally left a life that felt big, fast-paced, and upwardly mobile to embrace a different pace, a smaller community, and days full of the good stuff that comes with a small group of close friends and family. Now there’s no place we’d rather be.
NOW MORE THAN EVER
In late 2017, I released my second book, A Simplified Life. The morning of the big day, I drove my kids to school and came home to prepare to make the announcement on Facebook Live. I’ve always been very interested in the ideas of home keeping—in organizing, simplifying, and making life at home calmer and more efficient. A Simplified Life covers ten areas of life that often become overwhelming for busy women and explores ways to cultivate home as a place of respite and rejuvenation.
But my mind was spinning that morning. Just a few days prior, at a country music concert in Las Vegas, a gunman had opened fire on a crowd of people, killing fifty-eight. I was consumed with worry over what had happened. What was happening to our world? Why were these tragedies becoming more prevalent? How in the world could I protect my children when totally unexpected horrors like this happened?
And who in the world would care about home keeping at a time like this? What did the rhythms and routines of family life matter when these kinds of things were going on in the world? Weren’t there so many bigger things to worry about, to be consumed by, than life at home?
Like a jolt to my subconscious, I suddenly thought, No. So many bad things are out there . That’s a reality of life. So many things will suck us dry and challenge our safety, security, and faith in humanity.
For those very reasons, the big and small things that happen inside the walls of our homes are more important than ever.
The feelings we cultivate in our living rooms.
The food we nourish our bodies with in our kitchens.
The bedtime stories told with patience and love.
The tired little heads rested on laps, hair gently stroked to soothe away the ups and downs of the day.
Home is where fullness begins. Home is where we are most replenished, refueled, and refreshed. It is inside the walls of my home that little personalities are nurtured, grown-ups are known and heard, and family bonds are forged.
Home is the place we go back to at the end of the day. It’s where we retreat after work, play, and school. We’ve gone out into the world and done our thing, and now it’s time to head back to home base—the place where we can relax, be ourselves, and sit and stay a while.
Home is where fullness begins. Home is where we are most replenished, refueled, and refreshed.
Home is where we’re fed and fueled, where we bathe, removing what’s left over from the outside world, where we rest and rejuvenate. Our homes are holy places. Home should allow us to be in our most natural state, removed from all the trying, striving, and acting that happens outside its doors.
Home has the power to fill us up, with its board games, story books, music, Bible stories, hot cups of tea with honey and lemon, little (or big) piles of warm laundry. These monotonies of everyday life are the magic of the home.
A lot of love is involved in being the person (or people) who are actively cultivating a life-giving home (a term borrowed from my dear friend and mentor Sally Clarkson, author of The Life-Giving Home). I truly believe it’s one of the most important, powerful things we can do: to create a home that nurtures the people who live inside it.
CRAFTING A HOME
Back in 2008, when I founded my brand of organizational tools and day planners (Simplified®) on the tactical concepts of simplicity, I had no idea what we were tapping into. I was simply leaning in to my own overwhelmed feelings as a businesswoman and new mom, on the quest for a simpler life. But our message caught on like wildfire. Women from all over the world were interested in the concepts and tactics we taught. Fascinated at the community developing around the brand, I started to wonder, What is it that underlines this seemingly worldwide need for simplicity? What are we pushing against?
The answer, I’ve learned, is quite simple.
We live in a world of too much.
Too much of everything.
Connection, communication, possessions, and commitments.
And in our homes, the overflow looks like stuff. For many of us, our homes are filled with objects: clothes, dishes, towels, personal effects, and more. We pile stuff on top of stuff. And all that stuff requires an investment from us—physical, emotional, and more—whether we realize it at the time we acquire it or much further down the road.
Our homes have the potential to drain us or fuel us. When set up and cared for optimally, our homes have the power to be transformative on a daily basis. They are where we can shut the doors, leave the rest of the world outside, and be our truest selves. I’ve spent a lot of time setting up homes over the years. Creating a living space especially for our family during the newborn stage, with baskets of diapers tucked into corners, books and toys within arm’s reach. Creating a bedroom for two toddlers, with artwork painted by friends on their walls and favorite pajamas folded neatly in little stacks in their drawers. Crafting a room for a precious boy, who needed a quiet space all his own as he became a big-brother-times-two at once. And even before, creating a space for my own self, as a single gal in her first home, displaying photos of beloved friends and pinning concert tickets to my bulletin board.
Those special treasures (and special spaces) can be truly enjoyed only if what distracts us from them is removed. Trash. Clutter. Things that aren’t beloved but are simply set on a shelf to fill a space. Outgrown clothes. Objects we spent money on and would feel guilty for donating. Hand-me-downs. Gifts. The old that has already been replaced by the new but still lives in the home.
On the flip side is the home that is magazine-worthy at all times. Clutter is kept at bay, the house is continually tidied, and most items meant to be used for living remain very untouched looking.
I sometimes tend to veer toward the magazine side of things. And I’ve realized that although beautiful to look at, this approach misses something important when it comes to my sense of well-being (and my family’s well-being). A curated and tidy home may look perfect, but is it inviting the warmth, connection, and fellowship we want to happen here? Or is it simply neat and tidy for neat and tidy’s sake? Is it really lived in?
HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
One day, I had an experience that shook my previously held commitment to perpetual tidiness and order when I visited a friend’s house. She has a whole gaggle of children. Their home is modestly sized and decorated in a pretty way.
But what I loved and found so inspiring about her living spaces is that they were actually lived in. Baskets had been gathered for toys (toys were put away when not in use but within arm’s reach). Photos adorned nearly every square inch of her fridge (organized neatly but absolutely covering the space). A fish tank (and instructions for her son on how to feed the fish) lived in a corner of the kitchen.
In the living room, the coffee table had been replaced by a treasured quilt, a hand-me-down from a grandmother, perfect for tummy time and impromptu Goldfish cracker and apple juice picnics. Near the front door was a row of hooks for rain coats, jackets, and umbrellas, whatever may be needed when one felt inspired to get outside. Back in the kitchen, I didn’t spot any Pinterest-perfect
matching containers of salt, flour, and sugar. Instead clear glass containers held animal crackers, Cheerios, and lollipops (probably used for bribing if she’s anything like me).
It was thoughtful, homey, and comfortable. It was clean and well-kept but also showed signs of life. The space inspired me to sit and stay a while, to play, and maybe to have some animal crackers. Life was all around us in that space. Plants and sort-of dead flowers picked from the weeds outside were tucked into Mason jars. Report cards were proudly displayed on bulletin boards, and family rules in imperfect handwriting spoke from shelves around the house.
It was the most beautiful smattering of real life. I was so inspired to get in the car that night and head to my own house. We moved a toy bin into our living room. Created a snack basket in the pantry (on the bottom shelf where toddlers can reach when given permission). And I dug artwork out of folders and boxes to display on our own bulletin boards. I pulled our wedding photos out and popped some into frames. I gathered books from around the house and stacked them on a shelf to remind me of my love for literature.
What a magical way to live . . . to embrace and enjoy our homes as the sacred spaces they are and to allow ourselves to be refueled by simply being here. Here, in this special space, surrounded by this imperfect, messy life, I’m so grateful. I’m grateful I learned this hard lesson.
In previous books, I’ve written about my love for the verse, “Be still, and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). In walking this journey, in undoing and untangling much of my own mess and overwhelm, I’ve found beauty in stillness like never before. I’ve listened to joy that can be only heard when the noise is quieted, savored moments that can be only seen when the pace is slowed, and experienced love that can be felt only when our focus is narrowed.