I keep coming across this trend on TikTok and Instagram, a girl just standing there, staring into the camera, while this line pops up in the background: “What am I supposed to be afraid of? I packed 20 years into a single 23 kilo suitcase.”
Moments like this make me feel old, and honestly, a little bitter. I had to pack 39 years into that same suitcase. Why isn’t there some kind of age-adjusted baggage allowance? It’s just not fair. Also, I wouldn’t mind having a little chat with those girls, because I’ve got a disturbingly detailed list of things you can still be afraid of after packing your life into a suitcase. I have a PhD-lenght thesis on possible post-suitcase packing fears. In fact, I literally wrote a book about it, more on that later.
I hate to admit that as a futurist, but I didn’t expect I wouldn’t be able to go back to Hungary for the rest of my stuff, but it is what it is now. Getting it all shipped would cost a fortune, and it wouldn’t even worth it, as I mostly miss my electronics, and not that I could plug it in-no 220V over here. My apartment and my practice both ended up being rented out. From a distance, I managed it all through video calls, deciding what should go into a little storage unit I rent now in Budapest, what to donate, what to sell.
It’was a surreal experience, watching my home being dismantled by my family and friends, on this tiny, pixelated phone screen. I’m not sure if I’m still in denial, or if I genuinely don’t feel anything. Maybe it helps that I’ve settled into this new place a bit, and made a little social circle that holds me up.But still, it’s been a while, yet no big wave of emotions has hit me, and that’s strange, because I really did love my medical office.
I’ve always believed that objects are more than just “things.” A book is not just paper and ink, it’s the sleepless nights you spent reading, eyes watering from exhaustion but still unable to put it down. A bag isn’t just leather and stitching, it’s the quiet companion that held your little secrets as you rushed to an entrance exam or a first date. A painting, a sculpture, isn’t just decoration, it’s a story you relived every time your eyes met it.
And yet, it’s time to say goodbye. A new chapter of my life has arrived, and these memories, while beautiful, have become too heavy to carry with me, and they definitely won’t fit into a 23 kilogram suitcase.
Every item once had a special place in my heart. Actually, many still do. But now I’m ready to let them go, to find a new home, with someone who’ll cherish them just as much as I once did. So, also from 7245 kilometer straight-line distance from Budapest, I’m organizing a second garage sale, this time its really a complete reset: everything has to go, since even the clinic is already being used by someone else.
It would truly mean the world to me to know these beloved items-and the memories they carry-will continue to bring joy in the homes of my friends, readers, colleagues, and community. In a way, it feels like I’m leaving, and staying at the same time. I’m thankful to all of these people for helping me lighten my suitcase, and fill my heart.
I almost watch in embarrassment how much I’ve accumulated over the years. Especially books and clothes, I could have opened a library. What’s really fascinating to realize is how convinced I was that I couldn’t live without the precisely tailored system I had built around myself. Everything was about efficiency and time management. A tablet holder on the cardio machines so I could study while working out, a walking pad under my desktop so I could collect steps while writing books or articles. Every room had a coffee machine that, with the press of a single button, would deliver my pumpkin spice oatmilk latte in seconds.
Now, if I want to get my steps in, I actually have to go outside for a walk. The dogs are thrilled, my PhD advisor, not so much. I’m definitely less efficient, and it annoys me… but I’m slowly getting used to it. Without my little system surrounding me, it feels like I’ve gone back to ancient times, when people actually had to walk in order to move. I’m even getting used to the fact that my one and only moka pot takes ten minutes to brew me a cup of coffee -and during those ten minutes, I usually just play with the dogs.
Everything comes at a cost. I’m starting to enjoy the freedom of having nothing. Even though I could buy stuff here, books, clothes, whatever, I’ve made a strict rule: I’m allowed to have only two books at a time, the ones I’m currently reading. Once I finish one, I can get a new one, but only if I put the previous one out on the street. Of course, I still have to be extremely careful with my spending, but it feels so much better to think of it not as I can’t afford to buy things, but rather as I don’t want to buy them.
Here in Brooklyn, people have practically turned it into a sport to leave out their old, but still good looking stuff for others to take, and for a Hungarian girl- where even the bulky waste pickup dates are state secrets -it’s heartwarming. I love how clear and simple my home feels. That I don’t have to spend half an hour figuring out what to wear, because I only have one or two outfits per occasion, and I love the feeling of being free.
If I had to leave tomorrow, I could pack my suitcase, call a cab, grab the dogs, and head to the next address without needing anyone. At first, this kind of freedom was terrifying, after a life that felt like a prison, I was like a bird with clipped wings who didn’t know what the hell to do with herself now that the cage door was wide open. But now I very much know what to do with it. And I enjoy it more and more every single day.
