My life doesn’t include a lot of trappings. The life of a pastor and civil rights activist isn’t a glamorous one — at least it shouldn’t be.

I didn’t wake up one morning and declare, “From now on, I’ll live simply.” If anything, simplicity crept up on me while I was busy doing other things: marching, organizing, trying to keep my head above water during the Civil Rights Movement. Back then, simplicity wasn’t a lifestyle choice. It was the only way to move through the world.

When we traveled from town to town, we took just enough to fit inside a bag we could grab at a moment’s notice: a toothbrush, a fresh shirt, maybe an extra pair of socks, and the little Bible I kept tucked inside my coat like a secret. That was all we owned on the road. Nobody announced this as a teaching moment, but it became one just the same.

I remember one long night in Mississippi. We were heading into a community where tensions were high, and the sheriff wasn’t shy about letting us know we weren’t welcome. I was young, nervous and carrying a heavy duffel bag packed with more than I needed. An older gentleman, who had advocated for equality more years than I had been alive, looked at me and said, “Son, the lighter your load, the stronger your stride.” He took half my bag, dumped the unnecessary things onto the ground, and said, “Now you can run if you need to.”

He wasn’t just talking about the bag. Took me years to understand that.

Another memory returns to me from Selma, Ala. After a long day on the march, we gathered in a basement that smelled like sweat, hope and old wood. Someone managed to get hold of some fried chicken, two loaves of bread and a few apples that had seen better days. It shouldn’t have fed us. But it did. People tore off tiny pieces, passed plates around, and laughed like we were sitting at a holiday feast. One of the poorest meals I ever ate felt richer than any fancy dinner I’ve been invited to since.

That night taught me that abundance isn’t about portions. It’s about presence. It’s about people.

We learned lessons from our shoes, too. After miles of walking, feet blistered, legs shaking, you appreciate a shoe that holds its shape. Those shoes weren’t stylish. Some flopped on one side, some were patched with makeshift glue. But they stayed with us when we needed them.

Whenever people today joke about my old shoes, I don’t mind. Those beat-up soles remind me of where I’ve been and who walked beside me.

One of the clearest lessons came from a woman in Birmingham, Ala. Along with some other activists, I had been arrested and released late at night with nowhere to go, tired, hungry, nerves frayed thin. This woman, who couldn’t have had more than two rooms in her entire house, waved us inside without hesitation. That little place leaned like it needed prayer just to stay upright. But she laid blankets on the floor, brewed coffee in a dented tin pot, and said, “Baby, God multiplies space.”

And somehow, there was room. That house became holy ground for one night. That night taught me that hospitality is not about square footage; it’s about room in your heart.

All those moments — the shoes, the bags, the meals, the borrowed floors — stuck to me. They slowly carved out a truth I carry now: Life becomes clearer when you stop carrying what you don’t need.

These days, I keep things that serve me and let go of the rest. I choose a home that fits my spirit better than a large one ever could. I spend more time on front porches, in small cafés, at kitchen tables — talking with people, listening to their stories, letting life be unhurried when I can manage it.

Simplicity hasn’t made my life smaller. It has made it sharper. Kinder. Easier to feel God moving.

The world tries to convince us that meaning comes from accumulation, bigger houses, nicer clothes, more social media followers and endless noise. But the movement taught me something else: The lighter your load, the stronger your stride. And the older I get, the more grateful I am for that lesson.

At this point in my journey, I’ll take that over anything money could buy.

Peter Johnson has been a civil rights leader in Dallas since 1969. He is a Dallas Morning News contributing columnist. His columns are written with assistance from Don Robinson, executive director of the Peter Johnson Institute for Non-Violence.