We live in a world of abundance, but most of us don’t know it. I didn’t even know it until I owned nothing and, oddly, found myself liking it.
At university, I spent a year living in a fraternity house under one roof with over 20 other friends. “What’s mine is yours” wasn’t a choice as much as it was an inevitability. Dishes, clothes, headphones—everything I owned became part of a shared pool.
Sure, it was inconvenient when I couldn’t wear my favorite shirt to the bar on Friday night because someone else had worn it the night before. But there were also some perks. I cooked less because there was a surplus when others cooked. I didn’t have to drive often because someone was always going where I needed to go, and I could just hitch a ride.
Like alka seltzer in water, my sense of ownership was dissolving. Instead of being attached to my things, I became increasingly concerned with getting the most use out of them.
Maximizing utility became more valuable than minimizing loss.
Doing more with less is the essence of the sharing economy, which started gaining traction in the 2010s. A technology layer embedded onto our things that coordinated supply and demand with extreme efficiency and unlocked hidden gold mines across many industries. Airbnb was one such poster child.
When I accidentally started managing vacation rentals, the slogan was “Turning Dust Into Dollars.” Rather than sitting empty 90% of the year, we helped homeowners put their second homes into a shared pool which not only generated revenue but also increased utilization.
This wasn’t just economic equilibrium, it was the Tao of Value Exchange.
And it felt damn good. Like when you cook a big family dinner and there are no leftovers, but everyone feels perfectly full.
It wasn’t long before this equilibrium became my new default, constantly finding ways to get more use out of things. I threw cars on Turo, rented surfboards on Quiver, and started letting strangers sleep on my couch.
The more I did this, the more I broke the boundaries between “mine” and “ours.” Profiting from ownership was no longer about what I received, it was about what I could give.
My need to own things continued unraveling. It was like Marie Kondo and Greg McKeown had a baby, and that baby slapped me in the face and asked, “Do you really need to own anything?”
Turns out I didn’t.
I didn’t actually have to own anything if I had access to everything.
I didn’t have to own a boat to enjoy the deep blue sea. If I knew the right people, I could get all the benefits of owning a boat without having any of the responsibility.
I didn’t have to own music or movies if I could just stream at will.
In 2020, I put the theory to the test and started living out of a bag and a half. Now I own practically nothing, and yet, I feel like I have everything at my fingertips.
He is not rich, for he has nothing; he is not poor, for he gives abundantly.
— Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj
Where does this need for owning come from anyway?
Surely there must be more to it than simply putting one’s name on something. Here are a few of the real benefits we get from ownership:
Predictability: I want to know it’ll be in the same (or better) condition. If I let you use my car for the night, I expect it to come back in one piece.
Preference: I want it how I want it. The paint job, the seat settings, the cover on the steering wheel–they all reflect my preferences and self-expression.
Convenience: I want it when I want it, without waiting on others. If I call an Uber, I want it to come to me and be ready to go whenever I am.
Status: I want to be recognized for what I own and granted the privileges that come with that ownership. As a Tesla owner, I have special rights to the supercharger network, and I can attend events and join clubs that others can’t.
Leverage: I want to receive value in exchange for what I share. If I put my car into a sharing pool, I deserve some sort of contribution in return.
If we could get all these benefits without having to label things “mine” or “yours,” would ownership still be necessary?
Maybe then we wouldn’t have to pay the costs associated with ownership, one of the biggest being waste.
When I’m not driving my 2001 Toyota 4Runner, I feel like a criminal because it just sits there not getting used. I know there are people who could use it, who would love to use it and would take good care of it. But there it sits in the driveway 90% of the day. My eyes squint and my nose crinkles out of pure disgust just thinking about it.
This idle capacity is a consequence of the matching problem.
How many rooms sit empty every night while millions continue to sleep on the streets? How much food goes to landfills while people around the world starve?
I used to wait tables and throw perfectly good food away when guests didn’t finish their meals, then drive home from work and see people on the street holding up cardboard that read “hungry.”
Technology will solve the matching problem, but it won’t fix the perspective problem.
Look around your room for a second... Of the things you call “yours,” do you really need to own them, or do you just need access?
I had to become homeless before I realized I didn’t need to own a home. But I don’t have to be car-less to understand that what I really need is access to safe and reliable transportation.
As everything in our world becomes more accessible, ownership will become obsolete and stewardship will take its place. It’ll be more about how you care for the things you use than how you profit from the things you own.
One day, you’ll own nothing at all—and you’ll love every second.
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