Choosing Connection Over Consumption

How to use your body as a compass

to discover what really matters

When my (now) husband and I first moved in together after college, I had about $500 to my name and no job lined up.

We set our sights on Santa Barbara, CA—a place I had never even heard of. The housing prices shocked us. Coming from the Midwest, we couldn't believe how little we could afford.

Eventually we found a tiny place downtown with just a hot plate and a bathroom. The laundry was shared and outside. On Saturdays, we’d walk to the farmers market for free samples, then pick up a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck from Trader Joe’s. I got a job at an athletic club and took my showers there, taking full advantage of the free shampoo and conditioner.

There was a sweetness to that simple season of our lives, and that little room holds so many of my most cherished memories. I cooked our meals in one pan, and it felt like we were playing house—improvising, making do, having fun. We were building something together.

Later, we moved to a studio apartment and converted the deck into a "nursery" when our daughter was born. For almost five years, the three of us lived in essentially one room. We hosted friends, serving wine in candle holders because we didn't have enough glasses. My parents would visit, and we'd stack ourselves into that space like a game of human Tetris. Though not always comfortable, the shared constraints became the container that held our growing love and connection.

Now, with a bigger home in Austin, I feel the trappings of lifestyle creep. My husband and I have an ongoing debate about the perfect set of sheets. We agonized over choosing a living room rug.

But then I turn on music and move my body with curiosity. I imagine floating in water, gently exploring every joint and space within. I marvel at the processes that keep me alive, which I usually take for granted. 

After 10 minutes, the sheets and rugs don't matter. I feel connected—to myself, my body, this moment. It grounds me in what’s real and meaningful.

As we enter the most consumerist season, I notice how I've been trained to want more. Every ailment seems to have a quick-fix solution for sale. The promise of relief—the dopamine hit of buying that solution—can feel irresistible.

Instead of reacting to these messages—"fix this," "upgrade that," "make your life Instagram-perfect"—I slow down. I ask what I truly want to move toward. Not things, but experiences and feelings. Who matters to me? How can I deepen those connections? What do I want to cultivate?

This season, I'm choosing connection over consumption—and it starts with coming home to myself.

How will you come home to yourself this season?