A Lesson in Less: What Moving to Vietnam Taught Me About Letting Go
When I think of minimalism, the images that come to mind feel less like a philosophy and more like a carefully curated Pinterest board. I think of color-coded shirts folded with military precision. I picture a single, oddly-shaped Scandinavian sofa or a $700 solid wood shelving unit displaying exactly one ethically-sourced fern…that sort of thing. In other words, what passes for minimalism online is often just conspicuous consumption masquerading as restraint. But moving to Vietnam taught me a different kind of minimalism—one that isn’t so much about staging an aesthetic, as it is stripping life down to what actually matters.
In 2024, my partner and I conceived the idea of relocating from Toronto to Ho Chi Minh City. At the time, neither of us had set foot in Vietnam, but we were aware that it was one of the world’s most popular destinations for English teachers and digital nomads. And, as if that wasn’t enough, it pretty much never snows there. So, much to the shock and concern of our friends, who had long since suspected we’d lost our minds, we packed our lives into two suitcases and began our pilgrimage across the globe. I knew this experience would change us, though I couldn’t say how. Now, in many ways, I can see it’s reshaped our perception of what it means to be whole.
The first lesson came in the form of language. As an English-speaker armed with little more than “hello” and “thank you” in my Vietnamese trick bag, my early interactions with locals frequently devolved into what I can only describe as a kind of grotesque performance art. It was both humbling and exactly the motivation I needed to incorporate Duolingo into my daily routine. Not just to get by, but out of respect for the locals who patiently tolerated my interpretive dance attempts at conversation.
Beyond the opportunity for cultural exchange, there’s a more subtle benefit to communicating with people who don’t speak your language: it forces you to decide which messages are worth the effort to convey. In Canada, the weather is everyone’s favourite conversational crutch. It’s the icebreaker of every Zoom meeting; the bridge over awkward silences; the topic you reach for when you have absolutely nothing else in common with another human. Conversely, the Vietnamese are generally more direct, and the weather here is so consistently pleasant, it’s not even worth mentioning. So, small talk is stripped away, revealing the raw honesty that often hides beneath verbosity.
Eventually, we invited minimalism into our home by actively resisting the urge to accumulate. We know our time in Vietnam is temporary, so we decided that everything we purchase here must be light enough to carry home or easy enough to leave behind. Consequently, our place is cozy but bare. After all, in a place like Vietnam, our apartment feels more like a pit stop. We’d much rather spend our time outdoors—walking, eating, laughing, and sweating; collecting memories instead of trinkets.
Whenever I have the option to walk, I take it. And I try to leave my headphones at home. Without the usual distractions of driving or listening to podcasts, the city introduces itself in small, vivid details: a delicate, fleeting smile from a well-dressed elderly woman perched atop her stoop; the warm smell of pho drifting down the block from a nearby street stall, the peaceful chorus of morning traffic as commuters head to work on their motorbikes; an awkwardly worded, yet profound message scrawled across the back of a t-shirt. What I once might have ignored or sped past now lingers—small fragments that stitch together the texture of living here.
Even my social circle went through a bit of decluttering. The time difference makes calls with family and friends difficult, but the gap reveals who’s willing to bridge it. You realize most “let’s catch up soon” friendships don’t survive a twelve-hour gap and a shaky Wi-Fi signal. What’s left is intimacy over abundance: a handful of relationships that matter more precisely because there are fewer of them.
Minimalism, I’ve learned, isn’t about deprivation, but clarity. It’s about life being stripped down until only what matters remains: sunlight, love, health, and connection. And now, the less I say, the more I mean it. The less I own, the lighter I feel. The fewer people I keep close, the more I’m able to show up for them. You don’t have to move across the world to experience the liberation of minimalism. You just have to start paying attention to what’s adding value to your life and what’s just taking up space.
