The first time I’d ever heard of a “no-buy year” was back in 2017, when Ann Patchett wrote an op-ed on the subject for The New York Times. In it, she detailed everything she learned after a year of no shopping, a challenge she embarked upon after noticing how much the habit impacted her anxiety, time management, and happiness. This lifestyle change had such a positive impact that she resolved to keep it up well beyond the year’s end.

I was twenty-four when the article was published, just a year and a half into receiving a steady paycheck from my first desk job. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was the first time I felt an unwieldy freedom while spending (both in person and online). So, even though I recognized myself in Patchett’s words, I kept shopping.

I bought lipstick and purses and notebooks (So. Many. Notebooks). I collected cheap lamps and fragrant candles and jeans that never fit quite right. I fell victim to trinkets displayed by the checkout counter. I added just one more thing to my cart in order to get free shipping. Each time, I was sure that my life would fall into place as soon as I had the object of my affection, whether it be a 100% organic cotton sweater or a pack of shimmery gel pens or even a leather AirTag case in the shape of strawberry. Of course, the thrill faded each time, and I’d begin the hunt for my next purchase.

It wasn’t until 2025 that the idea of slowing my consumption sounded more like a worthy challenge rather than a cruel punishment. I studied my bank statements and saw what I already knew: I shopped with the impulsivity of a child in a candy store.

I’m not the only one chasing the sugar high. Patchett’s essay aside, I’ve encountered quite a bit of content focused on consuming less, be it an infographic about the horrors of fast fashion or a video detailing a creator’s no-shopping rules. Most effective of all was the essay You’re overspending because you lack values by Sherry Ning, which popped up on my Substack feed last autumn. In it, she wrote: “Standing in front of all my stuff, it hit me that all of it used to be money, and all of that used to be time. I was standing in front of the metabolic waste of my existence, materialized. I was looking at the amount of my time, therefore my life, that had been turned into garbage.” Upon reading this I looked away from my computer screen and at my surroundings, clocking more than a few things that I’d bought on impulse. The room felt crowded, cluttered. Something had to change.

To tell myself I can’t buy anything reminds me too much of the restrictive, punishing nature of diet culture. So instead of a “no-buy” year, I’m opting for a “slow-buy” year, which I’ve defined through the following guidelines:

• Pinpoint the want behind the want. Almost every purchase I make is fueled by two things: a dopamine rush and an imagined future with the item. Am I buying this jacket because I like it or am I buying the lifestyle I think I’ll have upon purchasing it? It’s not unlike my approach to haircuts—do I want bangs, or do I want the face of the beautiful actress who has bangs? Sometimes the answer will be, well, actually, I like this jacket! I do want bangs! But most of the time, I’m trying to buy a sense of self an object can’t provide.

• Shop in person. Adding something to an online cart feels weirdly unceremonious… and way too easy. If I need to buy something, be it a shampoo refill, my next book club read, or a gift, it’s brick-and-mortar or bust—and ideally in support of a local business. Occasionally there will be something (concert tickets, artwork, newsletter subscriptions, etc.) that will necessitate an online purchase, but this should remain an outlier.

• Write all non-essential purchases down. Since the start of the year, I’ve added every frivolous item I’ve bought to a list in my Notes app. The goal here is not to shame myself for buying things, but rather be aware of where my money is going. Included on the list so far: a dry robe for open-water swimming, a pair of cobalt blue pants, and privacy film for my office window.

• Redirect the desire. Shopping is a dopamine rush, but the novelty of a purchase always wears off. If I have an itch to spend money, I ask myself if there’s something else I could do that might bring joy—make art, call a friend, cook, move my body. I even started sketching desired items rather than buying them:

• Consider the trade-off. Money is one thing, but the work I did to make the money is another. Is an espresso martini keychain worth the time I spent on a project? Probably not.

• Get creative. Take stock of gift cards. Clip coupons (both physical and digital!). Use the library, which has a TON of free resources beyond book lending. Refer to that Pinterest board full of outfit inspiration based solely on clothing already in your closet. Consider what could be done with the construction paper in the craft box instead of buying a whole new set of stationary. Rather than procuring furniture, try rearranging what’s already in the room. Enjoy what you have instead of dreaming of what you don’t.

I’m sure this list will change and grow, but so far it feels good, like I’m catching my breath after a long, uphill walk. The urge to shop still calls. But so does a life where perhaps what I have is enough. And I like the sound of that a lot better.

• It’s Give Me Space but Don’t Go Far’s second birthday this month! I know I just waxed on about reducing consumption, but buying my book is obviously the exception (and you can probably do so at your local bookstore!).

• Screen time feels good when it involves The Midnight Cafe, a charming video game from the brilliant mind of Kika MacFarlane. In it, you manage a quaint forest cafe and tend to your woodland customers. Oh, and you get to be a bunny:

• Every month, I illustrate wallpapers for my paid subscribers. You can see the designs for April here.

Thanks for reading. And hey, if you’ve implemented a no-buy or slow-buy year, I’d love to hear about your approach!