I have moved seventeen times in my life. Each move taught me something different, but they all shared one lesson in common: every relocation is an exercise in deciding what deserves to accompany us into the next chapter. Most people have the luxury of postponing that decision. If an item no longer fits comfortably into daily life, it can be relegated to a basement, attic, garage, spare room, or storage unit. It remains present but invisible, quietly occupying space while demanding little attention.
Moving has a way of eliminating that option. Every box must be lifted. Every possession must justify its existence. Every object forces a question: Is this still part of my story?
That isn’t to say I have always travelled lightly. For four of those seventeen moves, international relocation teams were required to inventory and pack my frog collection. At its peak, the collection numbered well over 1,500 frogs in every conceivable form, material, shape, and size. To this day, I can still picture a patient member of a moving crew sitting cross-legged on the floor of our home in Manila, carefully wrapping frog after frog after frog while trying to maintain a professional expression.
The relocation teams in India and Thailand were equally amused. By the time they reached the boxes labelled “Frogs,” there was usually a moment of silent disbelief followed by laughter and a request to know how one person had managed to accumulate so many amphibians. The frogs always survived the journey. The books were another matter. At one point, our family realised we were transporting forty boxes of books from one country to another. Forty. While every book lover understands the emotional difficulty of parting with a beloved library, even we had to admit that perhaps we had crossed the line between a collection and a logistical challenge.
The greatest lesson arrived in 2022 when I prepared to move from Berlin to Portugal. Faced with the realities of international relocation, I made what felt at the time like a radical decision. I parted with my frog collection.
More than 1,500 frogs found a new home with another collector who appreciated them as much as I had. It was not an easy decision. Those frogs had travelled with me across countries, continents, careers, relationships, and chapters of my life. They had been packed, unpacked, displayed, dusted, wrapped, catalogued, and lovingly transported around the world.
Yet as I reflected on that decision, I realised something unexpected. For years, the frogs had represented resilience, adaptability, transformation, and the ability to thrive in changing environments. They had become visual reminders of qualities I admired and hoped to cultivate in my own life.
Then it occurred to me that I no longer needed 1,500 reminders. I simply needed to internalise the frog.
The lesson had already been learned. The symbol had served its purpose. Resilience no longer lived on a shelf. It lived within me. When I arrived in Portugal with three suitcases, I discovered that I had not left part of my life behind. I had simply made room for the next chapter to begin.
Since then, my luggage has continued to shrink. Somewhere between my seventeenth move and a vacuum-packed backpack, I realised that luggage and life have more in common than I once imagined. The older we become, the more opportunities we have to accumulate baggage—not physical baggage, but emotional baggage, psychological baggage, old disappointments, old grievances, old regrets, old versions of ourselves, and stories that may once have served a purpose but no longer deserve space in our carry-on luggage.
Yet many of us continue carrying them long after their usefulness has expired. We cling to old wounds, replay old conversations, revisit old mistakes, and drag unfinished chapters into entirely new seasons of life. Perhaps because letting go feels risky. Perhaps because the familiar, even when painful, feels safer than the unknown. Yet every move I have ever made taught me the same lesson: you cannot fully embrace a new chapter while insisting on transporting every piece of the previous one. At some point, choices must be made, boxes must be unpacked, and certain doors need to be closed.
As I embark on another journey, I find myself reflecting on how much travel itself has changed. When I was growing up in the 1970s, airline luggage allowances seemed wonderfully generous. Travellers checked bags with little concern for dimensions, weight restrictions, or whether a wheel protruded three millimetres beyond an approved measurement. Today’s budget airlines operate according to a rather different philosophy. Every kilogram matters. Every centimetre counts. Entire queues can be held hostage while luggage is examined with the intensity of a customs investigation. Thus far, however, airlines have resisted the temptation to weigh passengers alongside their carry-on luggage, a policy for which I remain profoundly grateful.
My tendency to overpack was inherited honestly. My father firmly believed in preparing for every possible scenario. Why pack one sweater when you might need three? Why bring one pair of shoes when four could be justified under sufficiently creative circumstances? As a result, I spent many years travelling with enough luggage to survive situations that never actually occurred.
Age has brought a different perspective. These days, I am less interested in preparing for every possible contingency and more interested in travelling lightly. Not because I have become more adventurous, but because experience has taught me an important truth: the goal is not to carry everything. The goal is to carry what matters.
It took me many years to fully understand that lesson. In truth, I first encountered it during the Camino Ignaciano, which I walked in 2013 and again in 2015. Pilgrimage has a remarkable way of stripping life down to its essentials. Day after day, every item on your back must justify its weight. Every unnecessary possession eventually becomes a burden.
During that period, I came across a book by Jean-Christie Ashmore entitled Camino de Santiago: To Walk Far, Carry Less. At the time, I interpreted the title as practical advice for pilgrims. Today, I understand it rather differently. The principle applies to far more than backpacks. To travel far in life, we must also learn to carry less emotionally. Less resentment. Less regret. Less guilt. Less attachment to identities we have outgrown. Less energy devoted to old stories whose endings were written long ago.
Pilgrims quickly discover that every unnecessary kilogram eventually makes itself known. The same is true of emotional baggage. What we refuse to release inevitably weighs upon us. Perhaps that is why every meaningful journey begins with letting go.
The older I become, the more convinced I am that life works best when we travel lightly. Some memories deserve to accompany us. Some lessons deserve to be preserved. Some people deserve a permanent place in our hearts. The rest belongs in the chapter we have already finished reading. After all, the purpose of letting go is not to have less. It is to make room for what comes next.
Today is travel day, and by the time most of you read this I will be have embarked on my greatest adventure for 2026. The A Frog In… travelogues begin later today. Stay tuned!
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