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Stewardship
Minimalism
Minimalism without sustainability loses its meaning. My struggle to live that truth underscored the need for a stewardship mindset to sit at the heart of The Level Playing Field.
Living in the past
There’s a reason so many of us struggle to let things go. For most of human history, possessions were tied directly to survival. Tools, garments, and blankets weren’t just conveniences — they were extensions of our ability to live, protect, and provide.
There was no corner shop or overnight delivery. What you had, you kept. And if it still worked, you held onto it — because it had value. Real value. Material things were once among the only reliable stores of value, especially in rural or uncertain economies.

Even as currency systems developed, wealth was often still measured in land, livestock, or household goods. In pre-industrial times, a well-stocked home was a kind of insurance policy. Inheritance wasn’t just money — it was linen, tools, and furniture that could be passed down and put to use. For generations, scarcity shaped our relationship to objects. Saving things wasn’t a compulsion; it was wisdom. Waste, on the other hand, was foolish — or worse, a sign of detachment from reality.

But when mass production kicked in, the meaning of “things” changed. Suddenly, the logic of scarcity no longer applied in the same way. Products became cheaper, faster to produce, and easier to replace — while advertising and fashion cycles began telling us that newer was better.

At the same time, the old instinct to store, keep, or hold onto things “just in case,” didn’t go away. We carried it with us into an era where it no longer matched the context. That’s how we ended up with storage units and overstuffed drawers — our inherited instincts simply haven’t caught up with the world we now live in.

Understanding this doesn’t mean discarding the past — it means adapting how we produce and consume to the times we live in. Minimalism isn’t about sterile spaces; it’s about everything having its place. We no longer need to own everything ourselves or prepare for every possible scenario. What we need are updated ways of structuring our resources — designing products from the ground up with sharing in mind, and producing based on real demand. Not the other way around, where we manufacture first and then scramble to push it on someone.
This song reminds me to always thread as lightly as possible.
Hunting the timeless
Something in me has always craved order. Maybe a touch of OCD, but mostly a longing for harmony. With a flight-attendant mother who often brought home designer clothes from abroad, I grew up surrounded by beautiful things — yet rarely bought any myself.
For a long time, I didn’t need to. But when I eventually started buying my own clothes, I was intensely conscious of how each piece would fit — not just on my body, but into a system. I wanted every item to relate, to serve a purpose, to last.

That instinct — to treat each item as part of something larger — would later become the foundation of this philosophy: embedding accountability through stewardship, and rewarding customers accordingly.

Still, it took time before I even began to think of myself as a minimalist. In the ’90s, technical fabrics were the new frontier — with Gore-Tex and outdoor brands constantly pushing lighter, more advanced materials.

Like many others who grew up then, I was drawn to the innovation. But beneath it, already chasing something else: a timeless set of clothing. Something built to last. Of course, they didn’t make that — not really.

Like most clothing, there are always elements that followed some trend, and so never quite fit properly. Not to mention the way brands treat customers like billboards — slapping logos on clothing as if we were all sponsored athletes. Still, the urge to keep exploring the latest gear persisted.

To stay aligned with that deeper aim, I came up with a workaround: only buying from brands with strong second-hand value — think Arc’teryx or Patagonia. That way I could sell on the pieces if they didn’t fit the bill, which they of course never did. I’d heard through the grapevine that all serious outdoor people eventually ended up back with the likes of Fjällräven (and I should have listened). But the urge to try the latest and “greatest” always won out.
The 'ultralight' years
I was one of those guys who bought into every new hiking innovation. Paclite, Pertex Quantum, Dyneema. Snowboard gear. Fishing gear. Tents, tarps, hammocks. Endless small trinkets that ended up stuffed in drawers.
My wardrobe looked like a gear shed. I even got a full setup for deep winter camping — only to quickly realise it wasn’t for me. The shame crept in slowly, along with signs from my wallet that maybe something was off.

Most of my friends had similar habits — surfing, boating, electronics. Same pattern. It’s a pandemic out there: people with insatiable appetites for gear. Ultralight was the motto, but the total amount of stuff was all but.

It wasn’t until I reconnected with plant medicine that I began to see this behaviour clearly — not just as consumerism (I already knew that), but as compensation. A way to fill inner gaps with outer novelty. The gear wasn’t just gear. It was identity, aspiration, distraction, comfort. Each new item offered a brief hit of possibility — a promise of who I might become the day I had the right setup.

But that feeling never came. Beneath it all was a subtle avoidance: of stillness, of sufficiency, of facing the deeper question of whyI always felt the need for more. The gear itself wasn’t the problem — it was what it stood in for that mattered.
Less really is more
When the first big stories about minimalists started surfacing around 2015 — people living with just 100 items or less — I began to admit it to myself: that was my ambition. Not something for every occasion, but a few things that work for many.
The shift came gradually. As healing deepened and clarity returned, I started confronting parts of myself I’d long avoided — and the constant urge to acquire began to soften. I no longer needed gear to feel prepared, or novelty to feel alive. What I began craving was depth over variety. Simplicity over excess. If something was going to enter my life, it had to earn its place.

I’m not arguing that people who genuinely enjoy fashion or variety should have small wardrobes — only that we might benefit from rethinking the way we produce and purchase the clothing before we purchase them.

Instead of manufacturers endlessly churning out whatever they think might sell, we flip the script: all the different recipes — timeless pieces in a full range of styles and sizes — are available up front for fitting. We try them on, subscribe to what we actually want, and once enough orders accumulate, production begins.

That alone would take a huge bite out of the textile waste crisis, while easing the panic that drives people to buy backups of beloved pieces “just in case” the design gets changed, discontinued, or recolored. This way, we’re not only buying exactly what we need — in the exact color, without logos — but also stepping outside the relentless noise of the fashion cycle altogether.

Much of that anxiety exists because the current system is backwards — driven by guesswork and supply-side marketing rather than clear, stable demand. Reversing that not only reduces waste and panic—it frees up energy and attention for the things that actually matter in life.
Stewardship is a core component of The Level Playing Field — an innate blueprint for structuring life on Earth, built on Internet Computer and the principles of Coexist.