I downsized and hated it, so I moved back to my larger apartment
- After 17 years in her Manhattan apartment, the author’s treasured furnishings did not fit in a much smaller place
The author's well-worn, six-seater Ethan Allen sleeper couch, which would not fit in her new space. It went to the highest bidder for $99, a net loss because she had to pay for the disassembly and reassembly charges.
Mary Lowengard
I thought moving to a smaller apartment across the hall in my Manhattan building would solve multiple real estate dilemmas for me: I could downsize and reduce the number of possessions I owned and remain close to my daughter and her growing family, who would take over the family apartment.
Reader, I was wrong here.
Instead, I ended up with multiple storage spaces where I stashed my joy-sparking belongings and four dead orchid plants—and a case of the wintertime blues like I had never experienced. And my daughter—she and her family ended up moving to the burbs after all.
Take it from me: Downsizing is not for the weak, and it may not be for you at all. Here’s why I undid my big move.
[Editor's note: Brick Underground's Inside Stories features first-person accounts of dramatic, real-life New York City real estate experiences. Have a story to share? Drop us an email. We respect all requests for anonymity.]
Where did I go wrong?
My urge to purge began in 2014 shortly after I was named executrix for a beloved second-cousin’s estate.
An accomplished scholar, world traveler, and party-giver extraordinaire she had two brief marriages before settling down to four decades of matrimonial bliss to her third husband, an attorney who predeceased her by seven months. They lived in an enormous Chelsea loft stuffed to the gills with, well, stuff. There were enough books, bone china, fine art, antique and modern furniture, an amazing shoe collection, three sterling silver tea sets (presumably one from each marriage), and tchotchkes to fill Washington Square Park.
Disposing of their earthly belongings took me more than a year (they had no children, so there was no one to inherit the goods). I grappled with eight miles of books, bequeathed to her university’s library but politely declined. I tracked down a Canadian sculptor to return a bust he’d sold the couple decades earlier. Much of my cousin’s fabulous wardrobe went to the Theater Development Fund’s costume rental collection. An awful lot went to Housing Works.
Gazing at all my stuff
The mental and physical drain of this experience started me thinking about the legacy of my own stuff. I had lived in my generous-sized apartment in Manhattan for the past 17 years and had recently purchased a second home, which I was in the process of furnishing. So at this point in time, I was in an acquiring, rather than a divesting, state of mind.
As a writer, I had my own extensive library, and an accumulation of paper stored in banker’s boxes. I kept extensive notes, background materials (necessary if I was ever sued), copies of published articles and research for books and stories I would write…someday. Also, memorabilia from raising three kids—from grade-school papers and report cards to souvenirs from family trips across the country and Europe. Some three dozen cartons had been in (cheap) storage in New Jersey. I liberated them for relocation to my country cottage.
When I sold my second home six years later, the local library graciously accepted 11 cartons of my books. I readily divested the furniture, kitchen equipment, linens and towels by selling the house fully furnished. Now I was just moving out of an apartment. How bad could downsizing be?
Changing minds, changing homes
Flash forward to the spring of 2022. My daughter and her husband were discussing a move to the suburbs when I presented them with a win-win-win situation. They were expecting their first child in August, so I suggested they buy the estate-condition, one-bedroom apartment across the hall from mine that had recently hit the market. I’d renovate it, and swap apartments with them. Then they and their new baby could live in my three-bedroom, two-bath co-op with a free, built-in babysitter just steps away.
They were sold on the idea and closed on the apartment in May. I commenced on a mad scramble to paint, add new flooring, gut-renovate the kitchen and complete a bathroom facelift. One week before my grandson arrived, I moved into my new home, prepared to settle in, much to the envy of many friends who had to climb mountains and ford streams to visit their grandchildren.
I proposed the apartment swap as more than a simple act of motherly love and generosity. As important as becoming a contender for Grandmama of the Year, I saw the switch as a prime opportunity to downsize.
My biggest downsizing regrets
And yet in the rush to disassemble my original apartment, I hadn’t expected the harrowing effects of my downsizing decision-making. My new apartment could not accommodate my books, my essential papers, my off-season clothes, or my six-seater sofa. There was but one hallway coat closet and one large bedroom closet.
After life with eight closets, this wasn’t enough. What was once stored in a walk-in pantry had to be squished into one cabinet and three drawers. My new linen closet was a pair of under-bed storage boxes. The vacuum cleaner was in plain sight under the window in the kitchen.
Soon enough, I realized that getting extra storage space was the only way to manage what I was not ready to jettison. My sister agreed to store a few small heirlooms. A brother “inherited” a glass table, a big red chair, and a couple of bookcases. I rented one, then two, then ultimately four CubeSmart storage cubes.
It was delightful to have my daughter’s family so close by. It almost made up for the gloom I experienced from October to March, when my north-facing apartment with “Rear Window”-style views of fire escapes and brick walls received so little sunlight I needed a wall of Verilux HappyLight lamps to compensate. One by one, the magnificent orchid plants I’d relocated expired. One afternoon in March, a rectangle of direct sunlight cut across the floor of my living room. I danced for joy. And poof! It was gone.
Then, in late June, my daughter dropped a bombshell. She and her husband decided to execute their original plan to settle in the suburbs. My head spun with the options. I could sell the larger apartment, use the funds to purchase my current residence, and finish the downsizing project. No way, Jose! They should sell their apartment, and I would make a triumphant return to my original abode, which I still owned.
Except…seven months later, after an anemic number of showings and no offers to buy, I convened an emergency summit meeting, inviting my daughter, son-in-law, my sister, and a real estate agent who lived in the building. The agent endorsed renting the apartment for a year, at which point perhaps the market outlook might be more favorable for sellers.
The apartment rented swiftly. My daughter and her husband found and moved into their own (suburban) rental in early August. My return to light and space could now begin.
I installed new floors, touched up paint, and replaced some of the furniture I sold because it wasn’t needed in my downsized life. An industrious TaskRabbit helped me liberate my belongings and I bid adieu to storage fees.
What I learned
I found the solution to the emotional and financial costs of downsizing: Upsize. Sometimes you can’t choose which child you love best, which belongings carry important emotional attachments and which don’t.
When I was my cousin’s executrix, I grumbled to a colleague about the number and volume of items I had to wrangle.
“I really have to start downsizing,” I told him.
“Why?” he responded with a sly smile. “I did it for my parents after they passed. My kids can do it for me.”
Mary Lowengard is a writer and editor who has been in a New York State of mind since 1971. She recently published a collection of essays about owning and fixing up a country house, "The Bucknoll Cottage Chronicles: Sex and the City meets Under the Tuscan Sun, but no sex, no city and in the Poconos."
