Minimalist Digital Life: How I Reduced My Apps by 80%

I counted 184 applications across my devices last January. Phone: 97. iPad: 62. MacBook: 147 (yes, there’s overlap, but also plenty of desktop-specific tools). Each app represented a problem I’d tried to solve, a recommendation I’d followed, or a moment of weakness in the App Store.

Most of these apps I hadn’t opened in months. Some I’d forgotten existed. A few I couldn’t identify by icon alone—what did that purple gear thing even do? My devices had become digital junk drawers, stuffed with tools I’d accumulated without intention and never bothered to evaluate.

Today, I have 37 apps total. That’s an 80% reduction, achieved over six months of deliberate pruning. The process was uncomfortable, occasionally painful, and ultimately transformative. Not in the dramatic “changed my life” sense that minimalism gurus promise. More in the quiet “I can find what I need and focus on what matters” sense that actually improves daily experience.

My British lilac cat, Mochi, practices an extreme form of minimalism. Her needs: food bowl, water bowl, sunny spot, cardboard box, human to worship her. Five items. She wastes zero cognitive energy deciding which toy to play with (she ignores them all) or which bed to sleep in (whichever surface is warmest). Her life is ruthlessly edited, and she seems content. There’s a lesson here, though I haven’t gone quite as far as five apps.

This is the story of how I got from 184 apps to 37, what I learned along the way, and why you might want to try something similar—even if your final number looks different from mine.

The Breaking Point

The moment that triggered this journey was embarrassingly mundane. I needed to write a quick note. Just a few sentences about an idea I wanted to remember.

I opened my phone and paused. Apple Notes? Bear? Notion? Obsidian? Drafts? Craft? I had six different note-taking apps, each chosen at some point for some reason I’d since forgotten. While I stood there deciding where to put my note, the idea evaporated.

This happened often, I realized. Decision paralysis caused by too many options. The paradox of choice, manifested in app icons. Every category had multiple options: three email clients, four task managers, five weather apps (why five weather apps?), countless utilities that overlapped in function.

The clutter wasn’t just on my devices. It was in my head. Each app represented a mental model to maintain, an interface to remember, a login to manage. The cognitive overhead of 184 apps was invisible but real. I was spending mental energy navigating my tools rather than using them.

That evening, I made a decision that felt dramatic at the time: I would delete every app I didn’t need, even if I might need it someday, even if I’d paid for it, even if it was popular and highly rated. I would keep only what I actually used and valued.

The Audit

Before deleting anything, I needed to understand what I had. I exported my app list and categorized everything:

• Essential: Apps I use daily and would immediately reinstall if deleted
• Regular: Apps I use weekly or for specific recurring needs
• Occasional: Apps I use monthly or for specific situations
• Dormant: Apps I haven’t opened in 3+ months
• Unknown: Apps I don’t recognize or remember installing

The results were humbling. Essential apps numbered 12. Regular apps added another 15. Occasional apps contributed maybe 10 more. Everything else—147 apps—fell into dormant or unknown categories.

I was hoarding software. Apps I’d downloaded for a single use case and never needed again. Apps I’d tried and abandoned but never removed. Apps that came pre-installed and remained through inertia. Apps recommended by articles I’d read and forgotten.

The dormant category was particularly revealing. Why did I have three QR code scanners when the camera app handles QR codes natively? Why did I have a dedicated flashlight app when Control Center provides one? Why did I have apps for services I’d stopped using years ago?

The audit took about two hours. It was tedious but essential. Without understanding what I had, I couldn’t make informed decisions about what to keep. The categorization provided a framework for the deletion process that followed.

The First Purge

I started with the easy decisions: dormant apps I definitely didn’t need. The QR scanners, the redundant utilities, the apps for canceled subscriptions. I deleted 67 apps in the first session without hesitation.

This felt good. Each deletion was a small victory. Storage freed. Home screen decluttered. Decision points eliminated. I was making progress on a problem I hadn’t fully acknowledged was a problem.

The second round was harder. Apps I used occasionally but could probably live without. A restaurant reservation app I used twice a year—couldn’t I just use the website? A parking app for a city I visit annually—same logic. A photo editing app I loved but rarely opened because my main editor did everything I needed.

These deletions required more thought. Each app had a reason for existing on my device. But having a reason isn’t the same as being necessary. Most of these apps solved problems that could be solved other ways, less conveniently perhaps, but adequately.

I developed a heuristic: if I could solve the problem using an app I was keeping anyway, the specialized app could go. Email could handle newsletters instead of a dedicated reader. Safari could replace most single-purpose apps. The general-purpose tools I was keeping could absorb functions from apps I was removing.

By the end of round two, I’d removed another 45 apps. The remaining 72 required more difficult decisions.

The Hard Decisions

Some apps are hard to delete because they represent identity as much as function. The meditation app I’d used twice in the past year—but I wanted to be someone who meditates. The language learning app I opened monthly with good intentions—but I wanted to be someone who speaks Spanish. The fitness tracker I ignored—but I wanted to be someone who tracks fitness.

These aspirational apps are traps. They occupy space not because they serve current needs but because they represent the person you wish you were. Keeping them maintains the illusion of progress without requiring actual progress. Deleting them means acknowledging the gap between aspiration and reality.

I deleted the meditation app. And the language app. And the fitness tracker. If I wasn’t using them with the app installed, the app wasn’t the solution. The app was an excuse—a way to feel like I was addressing the aspiration without actually addressing it.

This was uncomfortable. Each deletion felt like admitting failure. But the alternative—maintaining a phone full of apps that reminded me of things I wasn’t doing—was worse. The aspirational apps created guilt every time I saw them. Removing them removed the guilt.

Other hard decisions involved apps I’d paid for. Sunk cost fallacy is powerful. I’d spent money on this app; deleting it wastes that money. But the money was spent regardless. Keeping an unused app doesn’t recover the cost; it just clutters the device. The purchase was a past decision. The current decision is whether the app serves present needs.

I deleted paid apps I wasn’t using. It stung. But the sting faded faster than I expected. The money was gone either way. The clutter didn’t need to persist.

What Survived

After six months of deliberate pruning, 37 apps remained. Here’s the general breakdown:

Communication (6 apps): Phone, Messages, one email client, one messaging app for family, one for work, FaceTime. I consolidated from multiple messaging apps to two by migrating contacts to preferred platforms.

Productivity (8 apps): Calendar, one notes app, one task manager, one writing app, Files, one document scanner, one password manager, one automation app. The category that saw the most consolidation—from 23 apps to 8.

Information (5 apps): Safari, one news app, one podcast app, one read-later app, Weather. I eliminated dedicated apps for services accessible through Safari.

Media (6 apps): Photos, one music streaming app, one video streaming app, one audiobook app, Camera, one photo editor. Consolidated from 14 apps, mostly by choosing one streaming service per category.

Utilities (7 apps): Settings, Find My, Wallet, Maps, Clock, Calculator, Health. Mostly Apple defaults that can’t or shouldn’t be deleted.

Other (5 apps): Banking, one shopping app, one travel app, one smart home app, one authentication app. Minimal set for life management.

The specific apps don’t matter as much as the principle: one app per function, chosen intentionally, used regularly. Where Apple defaults worked, I kept them. Where third-party apps were genuinely better, I chose the best and eliminated alternatives.

flowchart TD
    A[184 Apps - Starting Point] --> B[Audit & Categorize]
    B --> C[First Purge: 67 Dormant Apps]
    C --> D[117 Apps Remaining]
    D --> E[Second Purge: 45 Occasional Apps]
    E --> F[72 Apps Remaining]
    F --> G[Hard Decisions: 35 Aspirational/Paid Apps]
    G --> H[37 Apps - Final State]
    
    H --> I[Communication: 6]
    H --> J[Productivity: 8]
    H --> K[Information: 5]
    H --> L[Media: 6]
    H --> M[Utilities: 7]
    H --> N[Other: 5]

The Unexpected Benefits

The obvious benefit was reduced clutter. Fewer apps means cleaner home screens, less time searching, and fewer decisions about which tool to use. But the unexpected benefits mattered more.

Reduced notifications. Fewer apps means fewer sources of interruption. I didn’t realize how much notification noise I’d been absorbing until it decreased. My phone went from constant buzzing to occasional relevant alerts.

Improved focus. Without the paradox of choice, I could focus on tasks rather than tools. Open the notes app, write the note. Open the task manager, add the task. No deliberation required.

Faster device performance. This surprised me. Fewer apps means less background activity, less storage pressure, and less for the system to manage. My phone felt snappier, though I can’t prove the connection.

Better app mastery. When you use one app instead of three alternatives, you learn it more deeply. I discovered features in my remaining apps that I’d never explored because I was always switching between options.

Financial savings. Fewer subscriptions, fewer impulse purchases, fewer “pro” upgrades for apps I barely used. I saved perhaps $200 annually just by eliminating redundant services.

Mental peace. This is the hardest to quantify but perhaps the most significant. A decluttered device feels calmer. Opening my phone no longer triggered low-grade anxiety about all the things I should be doing across all the apps I wasn’t using.

Method

The approach I developed has several components that might help others:

Step 1: Complete Audit List every app across all devices. Categorize by usage frequency: daily, weekly, monthly, rarely, never. Be honest—check actual usage data if available.

Step 2: Easy Deletions Remove apps you genuinely don’t use and don’t need. Redundant utilities, abandoned experiments, apps for canceled services. This is low-hanging fruit that builds momentum.

Step 3: Consolidation For each category, ask: could one app serve the functions currently spread across several? Choose the best general-purpose option and delete the specialists.

Step 4: Aspiration Check Identify apps you keep for who you want to be rather than who you are. Consider whether the app helps you become that person or just occupies space. Delete honestly.

Step 5: Function vs. App For remaining apps, ask: could I accomplish this through an app I’m keeping anyway? Safari replaces many single-purpose apps. Default apps often work fine.

Step 6: Maintenance Review monthly. New apps accumulate naturally. Apply the same criteria to incoming apps. Delete what doesn’t earn its place.

The process takes time. I spread it over six months, making decisions gradually rather than rushing. Hasty deletions lead to reinstallations; considered deletions tend to stick.

The Reinstallation Test

Not every deletion was permanent. I reinstalled 8 apps during the six-month period, representing decisions I got wrong. This wasn’t failure—it was calibration.

The reinstallations taught me something important: the apps I truly needed made themselves known quickly. Within days of deleting them, I encountered situations where no alternative worked. These apps earned their place.

The apps I didn’t reinstall—the vast majority—proved they weren’t necessary. Months passed without missing them. The problems they solved either didn’t recur or found other solutions.

I recommend building reinstallation into the process. Delete with the understanding that you can always get the app back. Most of the time, you won’t want to. When you do, the reinstallation confirms genuine need.

The Desktop Parallel

The phone reduction was successful enough that I applied the same process to my MacBook. The starting point was 147 applications—many pre-installed, many accumulated over years, many forgotten.

The desktop audit revealed different patterns. More professional tools I’d paid for and genuinely needed. Fewer aspirational apps. More utilities that ran in the background without requiring attention.

I reduced from 147 to 43 applications. The percentage reduction was similar—about 70%—but the emotional weight was different. Desktop apps often represent professional investments. Deleting them felt like discarding expertise even when I hadn’t used the app in years.

The same principles applied: consolidate where possible, delete what’s dormant, question what’s aspirational. My menu bar, once crowded with icons, now shows only essentials. My Applications folder, once overwhelming to browse, now fits on a single screen.

What I Learned About Myself

The app reduction revealed patterns I hadn’t noticed:

I was searching, not doing. Many apps represented searches for perfect tools rather than commitment to adequate ones. The perfect notes app, the perfect task manager, the perfect writing environment. The searching was a form of procrastination—easier than actually taking notes, completing tasks, or writing.

I was avoiding decisions. Keeping multiple apps for the same function delayed choosing one. The choice felt consequential, so I deferred it by keeping all options. But the deferral had its own cost: complexity, confusion, and ongoing decision overhead.

I was confusing capability with usage. Having an app meant I could do something. But capability without usage is empty. The meditation app gave me the capability to meditate. It didn’t give me the habit. The app was a symbol, not a solution.

I was influenced too easily. Many apps came from recommendations—articles, podcasts, friends. “You should try this app” is easy advice to follow and easy to forget to undo. I accumulated others’ recommendations without evaluating whether they served my needs.

These patterns extend beyond apps. I recognized the same tendencies in physical possessions, in commitments, in goals. The app reduction was a microcosm of broader clutter in my life. Addressing it in the digital realm clarified what needed addressing elsewhere.

Generative Engine Optimization

The concept of Generative Engine Optimization connects to digital minimalism in an unexpected way. GEO involves optimizing for AI-driven systems that generate outputs. Digital minimalism involves optimizing your personal system—your devices, your tools, your attention—for generating outputs that matter.

Just as GEO suggests focusing on what AI systems can amplify, digital minimalism suggests focusing on what your tools should amplify. Fewer apps means fewer demands on attention. Fewer demands means more capacity for meaningful work. The optimization isn’t about having more tools—it’s about having the right tools and the focus to use them.

AI tools increasingly enable consolidation. A powerful AI assistant can replace multiple specialized apps—research tools, writing aids, information managers. As AI capabilities grow, the case for app minimalism strengthens. Why maintain ten apps when one AI-augmented tool can serve all those functions?

The practical skill is curation: knowing what to keep, what to discard, and what to consolidate. This applies to apps, to information sources, to tools of all kinds. The person who curates well amplifies their effectiveness. The person who accumulates without curating drowns in options.

The Maintenance Challenge

Reducing apps is satisfying. Maintaining the reduction is harder. New apps are constantly promoted. Problems arise that feel like they need new tools. The accumulation pressure never stops.

My strategies for maintenance:

One-in-one-out rule. Installing a new app requires deleting an existing one. This creates friction that prevents casual accumulation.

Monthly review. Once a month, I review my app list. Anything I haven’t used gets questioned. Anything I’ve added gets evaluated. The review takes 10 minutes and prevents gradual re-cluttering.

Default to web. When I encounter a service that wants me to download an app, I first try the web version. Often it’s adequate. If so, no app needed.

Resist recommendations. When someone recommends an app, I note it and wait. If I encounter the need independently, I’ll consider the recommendation. If not, it wasn’t for me.

Trust past decisions. I’ve already evaluated my tools. The task manager I chose is good enough. The notes app I kept works. Searching for better options is rarely productive; using current tools is.

These strategies require ongoing attention but less attention than accumulation requires. The maintenance burden is lighter than the complexity burden of 184 apps.

For Those Considering This

If my experience resonates, here’s encouragement for starting your own reduction:

Start with the audit. Understanding what you have enables informed decisions. Spend the two hours to categorize everything.

Begin with easy deletions. Build momentum with obvious choices. The hard decisions are easier after you’ve proven you can delete things.

Embrace discomfort. Some deletions will feel wrong. That discomfort is information—sometimes it means you’re making a mistake, sometimes it means you’re confronting attachment. Sit with it before reinstalling.

Accept imperfection. You’ll delete something you later need. That’s fine. Reinstall it. The process is iterative, not definitive.

Focus on one device at a time. Phone first, then tablet, then computer. Spreading effort dissipates focus.

Give it time. I spread my reduction over six months. Rapid purges often lead to rapid reinstallations. Considered decisions tend to stick.

Ignore comparisons. My 37 apps might be too many for you or too few. The number doesn’t matter. What matters is that every app serves an actual need.

The Life Beyond Apps

Mochi just walked across my keyboard, a reminder that life exists beyond screens. She has no apps, no digital clutter, no decisions about which tool to use. Her needs are simple and her satisfaction is evident.

I don’t aspire to cat-level minimalism. I use technology for good reasons. But the app reduction reminded me that technology should serve life, not complicate it. Every app is a commitment—of attention, of cognitive space, of maintenance. The commitment should be justified.

The 147 apps I deleted weren’t bad apps. Many were excellent, well-designed tools that served real purposes. But they weren’t my purposes, at least not anymore. They were solutions to problems I didn’t have, optimizations for workflows I didn’t use, capabilities I didn’t need.

The 37 apps that remain are mine. Not perfect—nothing is perfect—but deliberately chosen and regularly used. They serve my actual life rather than an imagined one.

Six Months Later

Half a year after completing the reduction, I can report: I haven’t missed the deleted apps. The situations I worried about—needing that one app for that rare use case—either haven’t materialized or found other solutions.

My phone has become a tool rather than a distraction. I pick it up, do what I need, put it down. The endless browsing, app-hopping, and decision paralysis have diminished. Not disappeared—I’m still human—but diminished meaningfully.

The reduction also changed my relationship with new technology. I’m more skeptical of “you need this app” advice. I’m more patient with the tools I have. I’m more focused on using technology rather than acquiring it.

Would I recommend an 80% reduction to everyone? No. Some people genuinely need more apps than I do. Some have workflows that require specialized tools. The percentage isn’t the point.

The point is intentionality. Every app should justify its presence. Every tool should serve an actual need. The specific number is personal; the principle is universal.

Final Thoughts

I started this journey because I couldn’t remember where to write a note. I ended it with a clearer mind, a faster device, and a simpler relationship with technology.

The reduction wasn’t about deprivation. I didn’t give up capabilities I needed. I released capabilities I didn’t use and never would. The apps I deleted were theoretical value—things I might need someday. The apps I kept are actual value—things I use today.

Mochi has settled into her sunny spot by the window, unconcerned with my digital decluttering. She lives in a world of immediate needs and simple satisfactions. I’m not there yet—my 37 apps attest to complexity she can’t imagine—but I’m closer than I was with 184.

If your phone feels overwhelming, if choosing between apps paralyzes you, if you can’t quite remember why you have three weather apps, consider the audit. Understand what you have. Delete what you don’t need. Keep what you actually use.

The 80% reduction was right for me. Your number will be different. But the process—interrogating what you have, choosing what to keep, releasing what doesn’t serve you—applies to anyone with a cluttered device and the willingness to simplify.

Start with the audit. The clarity that follows is worth the effort.