Years ago, I was sitting on the balcony of my apartment in Brooklyn, unaware of the lesson about to unfold.

It was a gorgeous spring day, and the morning routine I’d started in prison was unfolding as the sun peeked over the neighboring apartment buildings.

It was me, a single chair (passed from tenant to tenant), my black and white composition notebook, a pen, and a cup of coffee.

The mug I was drinking out of was one of the few vestiges of my past life I still owned.

In a bout of overwhelming unworthiness, I told my ex-wife over the prison phone that she could have everything in the divorce.

I felt tremendous shame for what I’d done and didn’t feel worthy of our possessions. But she insisted I take a television and the tableware, because it wasn’t just any tableware.

I’d spent well over four figures on a Juliska (to match the light fixtures in our entryway) set of plates, bowls, mugs, and all other accouterments.

I carried three distinct feelings around that tableware.

A part of me still reserved some kind of reverence for the tableware, as if the brand name meant something.

As if owning it still said something about me, even though there were nights I skipped dinner because I couldn’t afford to eat.

It reminds me of generational wealth, passed down over time, diminishing with each new generation until there’s nothing left but the family name and an idea of what used to be.

And yet, they elevate themselves above others.

There was also a part of me that was disappointed and embarrassed that I spent that much on plates and glassware.

I mean, how fucking stupid was that?

And lastly, a part of me was happy I had them for their sheer functionality.

Because otherwise I owned nothing and didn’t have the money to buy anything.

As my morning routine played out, I reached for the mug resting on the brick threshold of the patio door, and then it happened.

I misjudged my reach; the mug fell just a few inches to the concrete floor and shattered.

If I wanted to be poetic, I’d say it smashed into a “million little pieces,” much like my choices destroyed the life I knew.

But it didn’t; a mug doesn’t need to break into a million pieces to lose functionality; more than one piece does the job.

I looked at the pieces, and all three emotions I’d carried—everything I’d assigned that mug to mean- washed through me.

The reverence for the designer label made me feel further away from my past life.

A sense of “good riddance” was tied to the shame and embarrassment.

And sadness. I only had a few mugs left, and I needed them.

But then, a sensation I’ll never forget pushed all the other emotions aside.

Years of meditation, journaling, and expressing gratitude colluded as I said to myself with crystal clear clarity,

“The mug was already broken.”

That mug, or anything I own, for that matter, won’t last forever; it’s all already broken.

My pre-prison identity was inextricably interwoven with corporate success, money, and materialism.

I was that Juliska mug, my Panerai watch, and John Varvatos clothing.

To lose anything was to fail, to be incomplete. Every loss and failure to achieve felt like a loss of myself.

I’d chased and constructed a life of externals in pursuit of freedom so I could do what I’d always wanted to do: create.

I was oblivious to the fact that I hadn’t built a luxurious lifestyle; I’d merely constructed a well-appointed prison cell.

Here I was, on the balcony of an apartment I couldn’t afford without the grace of a friend who rented it to me below market value. I didn’t have enough money to buy dinner every night, and without the tableware, even a plate to put it on.

But I’d discovered something I never had when I was enveloped in things.

Inner peace and emotional freedom revealed themselves to me within the beauty of impermanence.

External things don’t fill me, and they don’t define me. When I lived from the outside in, I was trapped.

When I live from the inside out, I am free.

Years later, in a new relationship, in a new home, the tableware I’d once revered sat unused, wrapped in newspaper in a beat-up cardboard box.

I held onto it because it was “worth” so much.

It’s funny the things we carry that weigh us down, either physically or emotionally, or both. How many moves would this vestige of my old identity survive?

In the second half of my life, I know how I want to live, and have discovered the courage to live it. This was a burden I no longer needed to shoulder.

I donated what remained of the set to our local thrift store, where the proceeds go to good causes.

Several women behind the counter knew exactly what the tableware was and asked through bright eyes of disbelief and excitement,  

“Really? You’re giving this away? You’re not going to consign it?”

With the greatest of ease, I let go,

“I hope it finds a good home.”

I walked out the door lighter, finally understanding how much I add to my life by subtracting from it.