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When consumerism turns consumption into a religion,
it’s best to remain brand agnostic.
On our last FAMZ call, someone commented on the empty chair behind me: “What brand is that?” The next day, a podcast listener asked what brand of jacket I recommend.
It happens all the time. People want to know what kind of couch, lamp, or suitcase a seemingly responsible minimalist owns.
I get it. Trust invites permission. If my favorite jeans work for me, maybe they’ll work for you, too.
But we must be careful.
I don’t mind telling you what brand of boots I wear (Timberlands, for now) or what kind of car I drive (a 2014 Toyota 4Runner, for years). But I’m quick to note that I’m not loyal to any brand.
At best, a brand is a shortcut to consistency. If a T-shirt from Los Angeles Apparel fits well, I don’t have to overthink my next purchase.
But when quality degrades—
when corners get cut or ownership changes—
that shortcut turns into a trap.
There, loyalty becomes a liability—
when a logo outlives its usefulness,
but not our devotion to it.
It’s even worse when a brand
gets tangled
into a sectarian group identity…
Am I a Ford or Chevy guy?
Are you a Hermès or LV gal?
To be clear, there’s nothing wrong with brand names—until we divinize them. That’s when shopping begins to resemble worship.
You see, a brand can’t love you back.
It won’t care when it’s failing you.
And it will never apologize for wasting your money.
Instead of placing your faith in a brand, it makes sense to choose objects that earn their place, release them when they don’t, and save your loyalty for people who can appreciate it.
Besides…
Minimalism isn’t about finding the right brand.
It’s about never needing one in the first place.
–JFM
P.S. Since you’ll ask anyway: the chair is from IKEA, and my favorite jacket came from a thrift store.
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