When I packed to move abroad, I thought I was making hard choices. I was staring at a closet, a garage, and a kitchen full of things I'd spent years collecting, and the airline gave me two bags and a carry-on. When I packed to move abroad, I thought I was making hard choices. I was staring at a closet, a garage, and a kitchen full of things I'd spent years collecting, and the airline gave me two bags and a carry-on. I didn't try to sell any of it. Spending weeks haggling over resale prices felt like one more way of letting the stuff run my life. I gave most of it away to people who could use it and donated the rest.
I expected to grieve. I felt relieved, and I've spent the years since trying to understand why.
The sorting taught me more than the move did
Most things failed. The gadget I used twice. The "just in case" pile. The clothes I kept for a version of me who never showed up. The sweaters I loved, the jacket I had to have, the beanies in every color. I stood there holding each one, and I couldn't justify keeping any of it.
Two things stood out as I sorted.
First, I couldn't tell what I valued from what I'd simply gotten used to having. Psychologists call one piece of this the endowment effect: we value things more once they're ours, even when we'd never pay the same price to get them back. Half of what I agonized over was only precious because it was already in my hands. The carry test cut through that fast. When the choice became "bring it or don't," the pull faded for most of it.
Second, I'd bought most of it to solve a feeling. Stress, boredom, a sense that a better life was one purchase away. A new kitchen gadget carried a small promise that I'd become someone who cooks more. A stack of unread books promised a calmer, smarter version of me. The feeling passed, the object stayed, and the promise went unkept. Standing over an open suitcase made that pattern visible in a way a clean closet never had.
And owning things isn't free after you buy them. Every item needs space, storage, maintenance, and attention. Each one was a small, permanent claim on my time and my rent. There's a whole industry built on renting you extra space for things you don't use, and I'd been paying a version of that tax inside my own home, every month, without ever adding it up.
Then I landed, and nothing was missing
This is the part I didn't see coming. I assumed I'd spend the first months replacing what I'd left. I didn't. I never needed more sweaters, shoes, or beanies, even the ones I loved. The things I'd agonized over, the backups, the duplicates, the "what if I need it," never came up.
When something did come up, I handled it the way people who live there do. I borrowed it, rented it, did without, or bought one decent version and moved on. A problem I'd solved at home by owning a drawer full of options turned out to have a smaller solution. The need had been real. The inventory I'd built around it was the excess.
What I did notice was how automatic my old spending had been. A weekend meant a store. A bad day meant a delivery. A good day meant a treat. Buying had become my default response to almost every feeling, and with less stuff and fewer familiar stores around me, the reflex had nowhere to go. I started to catch it in the act, and catching a habit is the first step to choosing whether to keep it.
The other change was quieter. A new purchase used to feel like an upgrade. In a small space, every item showed up immediately: where it lived, what it replaced, how much room it took. That friction wasn't a punishment. It gave me a pause I'd never had when everything disappeared into closets.
What the two suitcases changed about money
This is where it connects to everything I write about here. If you live somewhere cheaper, you can spend less and keep the same lifestyle. But I learned a quieter point first: even in a high-cost place, a lot of what I paid for wasn't making my life better. It was upkeep on a life I wasn't living.
There's a trap here that psychologists call hedonic adaptation. We buy something, get a short lift, and then reset to baseline, and the next purchase promises to lift us again. The new apartment, the new gear, the better version of what you already own. Each one feels like progress and works like a treadmill. Meanwhile the costs of the previous round keep running: the bigger lease, the storage, the insurance, the monthly payments.
Cutting that didn't feel like deprivation. It felt like finding money I'd been giving away without noticing. I stopped asking "what can I afford?" and started asking "what do I actually want my money to do?" The answers were different. Flexibility, time, and the ability to say yes to an opportunity came out ahead of most of what I'd been buying.
The freedom to move was a side effect. The bigger gain was being able to see where my money was going and decide on purpose.
What I'd tell you, without telling you to sell everything
I'm not here to preach minimalism. I still own things I love, and I've bought things since that were worth every penny. The point isn't owning less for its own sake. It's knowing why you own what you own.
Try this:
Do the carry test. Look at a closet or a drawer and ask whether you'd carry each thing across a border. You don't have to act on the answer. Just notice how many say no, and notice which ones you reach for first. Those are your actual priorities. The surprise is usually in what you'd keep that you've never used, and what you'd drop that cost the most.
Wait 30 days before buying anything non-essential. Write the item and the date in your phone. Most urges fade by day ten. The ones that survive a month are worth listening to, and the ones that vanish just saved you money without any willpower.
Count what your stuff costs to keep. Storage fees, extra rent for extra room, time spent maintaining, insuring and cleaning it. Add it up once. Sometimes the monthly cost of holding something is higher than what it would sell for, and seeing that number makes letting go easier.
I still think about that closet whenever I'm pricing out a lease or comparing two cities. It reminds me that a smaller life isn't a lesser one. Learning that cost me one flight and a lot of sorting, and it was the best trade I've made.
Curious how your own costs compare? Run them side by side in the Compare.livingabroadforless.com
Live better. Spend smarter. Think globally.