I Don’t Love You Anymore



There weren’t any tears during my most recent breakup. No possessions strewn across the lawn. No passive aggression. No yelling or fighting or angry text messages. Rather, there was a twinge of relief—an unexpected pang of freedom.

The moment it all ended, I just stood there, an awkward silence between us. When I finally handed her the bag of clothes, I knew there was no turning back. But her features held no sign of sadness—more like a look of gratitude. As I drove away, I didn’t once look in the rearview.

Thankfully, this estrangement wasn’t with a person, but with a large chunk of my wardrobe. If I would’ve anthropomorphize that bag of clothes before I handed it to the pretty girl at Goodwill, I would’ve told it, “It’s not you—hell, it’s not even me—its us. We’re no longer right for each other. I just don’t love you anymore.”

I realized it was time for us to part ways just last week, after I pulled on a teeshirt and immediately wanted to wear something else. Truth be told, it was a decent shirt, one I got a lot of use out of, but I didn’t love wearing it anymore, and I hadn’t loved wearing it in a while.

So I decided to go through my already minimal closet and jettison every item I didn’t love. I’d rather own just a few outfits—outfits I enjoy wearing, clothes I feel confident in, a wardrobe that brings me joy—than a mediocre collection of once-loved threads.

Sometimes love sunders, and we have to move on. The things we once loved, we may not love forever.

Read more insightful entries from The Minimalists here.

P.S. Today (Oct 23) is Ryan’s birthday. Wish him a happy 32nd on Twitter.


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