Recently, I was invited to teach a class on downsizing at OLLI. My first reaction was, "What do I know about downsizing?" Many OLLI members own multiple properties, expensive antiques, and have well-established networks for passing things along. Me? I’m a middle-class woman with everyday stuff. I have no grandchildren, and most of the possessions I have, my children do not want.
Then, I began reflecting on all the downsizing I’ve done over the years. I’ve moved from a large home to a small ranch, eventually selling everything we owned to live in a 33-foot motorhome. I transitioned from a 3,000-square-foot house—where we lived for more than twenty years—into independent living, then later from a spacious apartment to a very tiny one. I’ve held my own estate sale, cleared out my in-laws’ century-old Victorian home, and sent its contents to auction. Along the way, I’ve stored belongings, passed some to relatives, donated much to charity, and sold the rest.
Maybe I do know a little bit about downsizing...
My first real downsizing adventure began in the 1980s when my husband, Bill, took an early retirement to pursue a master’s degree in photojournalism. At the time, we lived in a beautiful custom-built, two-story brick home on an acre lot in Delaware—about 2,800 square feet.
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Our dream home being built. the one in middle.
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| Christmas in our Delaware home. |
Moving to a three-bedroom ranch in Virginia Beach, half the size, required shedding a significant amount of our belongings. We stored some of our nicer things at my in-laws’ and gave away what we couldn’t take. Other than the sadness of leaving my dream home for a rental, it wasn’t a difficult move.
Three months later, everything changed. Bill’s father passed away, leaving my mother-in-law, Marilyn, completely unprepared for independent living. Her husband had managed all the finances, done all the driving, and taken care of the shopping and cooking. So, with two kids in tow, I moved in with her while Bill remained in Virginia Beach to finish his degree. Every weekend, the kids and I made the 17-mile trek across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and tunnels for visits.
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Our 33' motorhome parked at a friend's house.
What was supposed to be a short stay stretched into months. Eventually, we cleared out the rental, sold or gave away much of our belongings, and moved Bill into a 33-foot motorhome while the kids and I stayed in Delaware. |
Perhaps motivated by the fact that there were now two bosses in the house—or more likely, the presence of my two energetic children who discovered the bomb shelter in her basement, loved exploring her antiques, and encountered a nude sunbather in her backyard—Marilyn eventually gained her independence. The kids and I were headed back to Virginia Beach.
“How are we going to fit in the motorhome?” my pragmatic son, Wil, asked.
“We’ll find a way,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “It will be an adventure.”
Truer words were never spoken. Our adventures were many, including burying a cat under the Yonkers Raceway, getting stopped for speeding in the middle of the Buffalo Mall, and avoiding a drug bust in Canada—but those stories will have to wait for another day.
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| Shelly, Wil, and Bill "dining" in the motorhome. |
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| Bill studying for his Masters Degree |
After Bill’s graduation, we moved to Pennsylvania, where he took a job at Teen Challenge, a farm that provided job training for former drug addicts. The organization offered staff housing, but “housing” was a generous term. Our home was a dilapidated trailer with crumbling wood paneling, worn-out appliances, and the constant aroma of cow manure.
Wil, my keyboard player, asked where he should set up. “Easy, just stick it in the closet and swing open the bifold doors when you’re ready to play,” I replied. I had bigger problems to worry about, like dodging the rotted hole in the middle of the hallway, cooking on a stove so rusted it belonged in a museum, and greeting the occasional 6’5, 350-pound ex-con dropping by to ask for my husband. We were doing “God’s will,” so I powered on.
During our time in Pennsylvania, Bill’s mother passed away, and we returned to settle her estate. Her Victorian home was packed to the rafters with antiques, newspapers, and the aforesaid bomb shelter full of rusted canned goods that were now leaking all over the floor. It took an entire dump truck just to clear out the trash. We kept what we could and sent the rest to auction.
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| The Downes family home. |
In 1991, Bill accepted a position at a large church in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where he could use his photojournalism and computer skills. Real estate was affordable, so we purchased a nice, 3,000 square foot home in Broken Arrow. We spent the next twenty years filling it with furniture, books, and the many other treasures that accumulate during married life.
 
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My porch backed up to a lush greenbelt in Oklahoma.
Deer, raccoons, beavers, and other wild creatures were constant visitors. |
Then, in 2008, Bill’s health began to decline. He mysteriously lost vision in one eye, then the other, a precursor to his Alzheimer’s. He was forced to quit work, so I returned to college, finished my degree, and took a teaching job.
By 2014, I was handling everything—working, driving, cooking, cleaning, yard work, finances, and caregiving. Exhausted, I decided to downsize from our 3,000-square-foot home to a 1,200-square-foot cottage in an independent living community. With the help of friends, I organized an estate sale, raising $8,000 to help with our new medical expenses.
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| Oreo enjoyed chasing squirrels at our Independent Living cottage. |
Independent living was supposed to lighten my load, but Bill’s struggles intensified. The man who once graduated magna cum laude was no longer able to operate his iPhone, a TV remote, or even a washing machine. It was time for me to stay home and care for him full time. Without the extra income, we had to move again—this time into a two-bedroom apartment.The VA diagnosed him with memory loss in 2019, and by 2020, I was breaking under the strain. My children insisted we move to Galveston to be near my daughter, Shelly. That move, in the midst of COVID and with Bill’s full-blown Alzheimer’s, was one of the hardest. But no downsizing that time—just survival.
The real reckoning came in 2022 when Bill needed nursing home care. I couldn’t afford both his medical expenses and our apartment, so I sold nearly everything we owned on Facebook—keeping only what would fit into a 725-square-foot space. This was the most challenging downsize I had ever faced, both practically and emotionally. I lived there for two years.
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| Living room, dining room, kitchen, craft room: All in one! |
Eventually, I secured Bill his VA benefits, so he’s now in a Veteran’s home with memory care. With our income freed up, I was able to move into my current, beautiful, 1,200-square-foot apartment in fall of 2024.
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| My new apartment! Big living room. |
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| Separate craft room. |
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| And a beautiful kitchen! |
As you can see, I’ve upsized and downsized quite a bit in my life. And I’ve learned a few downsizing tips along the way. But the most important thing I’ve learned? It’s just stuff. Letting go of your possessions isn’t losing—it’s making space for what truly matters.
