Annette Densham On Ten Suitcases, One New Life: A Year After Leaving Everything Behind for Bali

It’s been a year since my family and I completely uprooted our lives and moved to Bali. We sold, gifted, or threw away almost everything we owned, but I realise now the real change wasn’t in letting go of our stuff. It was unearthing layers of myself.

I thought I was organising old boxes and drawers, but I was really digging into old versions of myself and deciding which ones I wanted to take with me into this new chapter of life.

Deciding to Leap

On 5 December 2024, my husband, Earl, our oldest son, Zayde, and I boarded a plane in Brisbane with ten suitcases — the entirety of our worldly possessions — and set off for what’s famously known as the Island of the Gods.

This wasn’t a decision we made lightly. We’d visited Bali in May, and that trip opened our eyes to a different way of living. We realised just how exhausted we were by our current lifestyle. Tired of the daily grind, the relentless pace, and the pressure of bills piling up. Even after cutting back on many small luxuries, we were barely scraping by. Our lives felt more like transactions than genuine experiences.

Looking around, we saw a country obsessed with materialism, stress, rules, and outrage. The comforts our lives provided felt like a cage, with no way out. While our lives might have looked perfect on social media, there was a sense that something fundamental was missing.

Our trip to Bali shifted everything. It wasn’t just about sun-soaked beaches and exotic dishes. It was the subtle, persistent reminder that life could be different if we dared to make a change. Bali offered a slower, more intentional pace. Here, people actually looked each other in the eye rather than over their shoulders. The community felt real and tangible. It was a place where it was okay to take a breath without feeling guilty about it.

Of course, Bali isn’t without its challenges. Traffic can be crazy, litter is everywhere, and poverty is a stark reality for many. Rising costs driven by tourism also mean it won’t always be the cheap paradise we imagine. Still, we found ourselves asking, What if?

With our kids grown and our lives well into our mid-fifties, we felt that if we were going to take a leap into something exciting, the time was now. First, though, we had to let go of almost everything. We needed to declutter our lives and make space for this new adventure.

The Strange Liberation of Logistics

To prepare for an international move, nothing highlights the absurdity of holding onto sentimental clutter quite like packing. Suddenly, having eight sets of sheets seemed ridiculous. Hosting platters became relics of a time when we actually entertained guests. That tangled box of cords — the self-breeding monster living in our cupboard — was finally exposed for the clutter it truly was.

I found boxes of photos filled with faces I couldn’t even identify and moments that felt distant. I’d carried these around like sacred artefacts when, in reality, much of it wasn’t meaningful at all. It was simply evidence of my existence and accumulation.

Letting go of certain items came with a wave of guilt, as if I were abandoning little witnesses to my life. Sorting through everything felt like an emotional workout, twisting and turning as nostalgia weighed on me. Eventually, I grew tired of the guilt and became ruthless. Some gifts and handmade treasures made the cut; everything else received an immediate eviction notice.

After six months of downsizing, we managed to fit what was left of our lives into ten tubs and one campervan. Even now, each time I look at those tubs, I feel the urge to declutter further. I’d ask myself, Why on earth am I keeping this warped, slightly mouldy breadboard that belonged to my mum? Eventually, practicality triumphed over sentiment.

Facing Yourself Without the Padding

Old possessions aren’t always valuable, especially in a world where almost anything can be replaced with a few clicks. What we did felt like a subtle act of defiance against the myth that accumulating more stuff equals more security. When you strip it all away, what remains are the real treasures: humour, connection, identity, and the people who truly understand you.

This process of reduction is humbling. When you can list every item you own, there’s nowhere to hide. It prompts confronting questions: What do I genuinely need to feel secure? What burdens, expectations, guilt, or old habits am I carrying that don’t belong to me?

At first, downsizing felt like deprivation. I worried about wasted money and poor choices. Gradually, though, it shifted into clarity. I realised that convenience doesn’t equal happiness, and ownership doesn’t define who I am. The items that survived the culling earned their place by reflecting who I am once the safety net of possessions was gone.

The Peace of Knowing What You Own

We’ve pared down to two chests and two 90-litre tubs. What remains are the pieces of our lives that tell our stories. They hold meaning rather than volume. Everything else — the noise I once thought mattered — is gone and hasn’t been missed.

Nowadays, I can name every item I own. There’s a certain peace in that. What matters now is my surroundings, the people I love, and the knowledge that if everything vanished tomorrow, I’d still be whole.

When I open those tubs, I see items that matter: family stories, cherished books, and traces of the life I’m still building. Everything else is gone, and I feel lighter for it.

We tend to hold onto far too much out of fear — fear of loss, or the need to cling to what we think we need. But stripping everything back brings the essentials into sharp focus: love, courage, curiosity, laughter, and the openness to keep evolving into the next version of ourselves.