The Unexpected Joys of Simple Living on Cruise Ships

I grew up in a modest terrace house where space was always tight. My childhood bedroom barely fit a single bed and study desk, with just enough floor space to sit cross-legged. We didn't have much, but we had enough – a lesson that would serve me well when I first stepped into my cruise ship crew cabin years later.

That first moment stays with me. The door opened to reveal a space smaller than my childhood closet. A narrow bunk bed with about 30cm clearance to the ceiling. A cupboard that made airplane overhead bins look spacious. And a desk.

Yet within weeks, this tiny floating box would teach me more about simple living – and what “enough” truly means – than any spacious home ever had.

Learning to Live Light

I didn’t have some grand moment of realisation about minimalism at sea. The lessons crept up on me slowly, the way saltwater stains appear on your clothes after months at sea: barely noticeable at first, then impossible to ignore.

At home, I'd mastered small-space survival – the constant shuffle of possessions, the creative storage hacks. I thought I knew how to make do with less. But ship life taught me simple living isn’t just scarcity – it’s intentionality.

The first things to leave behind were obvious. The extra pair of shoes I never wore. The "nice" outfits I was saving for some imaginary special occasion. The stack of books I’d packed optimistically, then never touched. But the real shift happened when I started questioning things I’d always assumed were essential.

What began as necessity soon became liberation – one item left behind at a time.

The Freedom of Simple Living at Sea

As contracts passed, I began paring down – eventually creating a minimalist crew packing list based on hard-earned lessons. The extra shoes went first – who needed three pairs when one sturdy black pair worked for everything? Then the excessive makeup. The "just in case" clothes. The books I'd brought but never read.

With just one pair of work shoes (always black, always practical), I avoid decision fatigue about what to wear. My three-rotation shirts eliminated 'nothing to wear' stress – though I’ll admit, the monotony sometimes made me envy others’ outfits.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I realised: this expansive feeling came not from the ocean’s vastness, but from the intentional smallness of my own needs.

Unexpected Connections

The simplicity extended beyond physical possessions. With limited personal space, we crew members naturally spilled into shared areas. The mess hall became our communal living room. The crew bar our nightly social hub. Even mundane chores like laundry turned into impromptu gatherings as we waited together for washing machines.

Yet the same cramped quarters also taught me to fiercely protect alone time, often hiding in my bunk with a book while others partied.

There was something beautiful about this forced closeness. In the ordinary moments – passing a shared hair dryer down the hallway, or commiserating over the eternal struggle of washing oneself in a tiny space. The ship’s cramped quarters, ironically, taught me how much space people really need to feel connected – which turned out to be far less than I’d imagined.

Bringing It All Home

What I couldn’t predict was how these lessons would ripple ashore. Returning to my bedroom that once felt cramped now seemed vast, filled with relics of a former self. Clothes that no longer fit my life, gadgets that had lost their purpose, sentimental items frozen in time – they all remained, but their weight had changed.

I decluttered, but not with the ruthless efficiency of those minimalist gurus. My process was more like pruning a plant – some dead weight cut immediately, other branches left to see if they’d still bloom. The ship had taught me discernment, not deprivation.

Some things I released quickly – the obvious excess, the unused duplicates, the "just in case" items that never came to be. Others I kept, not out of attachment, but patience – allowing time to reveal their true value. A few sentimental pieces stayed, not as clutter but as gentle reminders.

The real change wasn't in what left my shelves, but in what stopped arriving. No more automatic replacements. No more "good deals" on things I didn't need. No more buying my way into imaginary future versions of myself.

Now when I look at my remaining possessions, I see them clearly – not as burdens or treasures, but simply as choices. Some were right for then. Some are right for now. And when they're no longer either, I'll let them go – in my own time, in my own way.

Simple living, I learned, isn’t about perfection – it’s about making room for what makes your life lighter, both at sea and on land.