There is something deeply satisfying about a small suitcase.
One that closes without a wrestling match, where everything has a purpose and nothing has been packed just in case you suddenly decide to become a different person on holiday.
I’ve become a little obsessed with the art of it.
I pack my children and myself into a single carry-on suitcase. We roll our clothes into tiny sushi rolls, tuck them into the corners and somehow fit in everything we need. I carry a little bottle of travel laundry wash and really enjoy the ritual of hand-washing our clothes in the hotel sink. There’s something rather satisfying about hanging a few tiny T-shirts over a hotel bathroom rail and knowing tomorrow’s outfits are already taken care of.
Shoes are a particularly serious consideration. My friend makes the chicest ballet flats in Antwerp under her brand, Odare, and I pack them for practically every trip. They take up almost no room and go with everything. I’ll squeeze in a pair of their little kitten heels, too, because minimalism is all very well, but I’m not giving up on a good shoe.
The trick is knowing what you actually use. A few beautiful things that work hard, rather than ten things that do the same job.
I love the miniatures, the little versions of things. Flat toys and books for the children, small enough to slip into a bag without sacrificing the entire suitcase. Everything has a place, and ideally, everything has two purposes.
Perhaps this is why I find the whole business so satisfying. Packing light is less about deprivation and more about getting rather good at the details.
And the details, as we know, are everything.
The suitcase as a state of mind
I’ve been thinking about how much baggage we carry, and how much of it we no longer need.
Physically, we’ve become very good at preparing for every possible version of a day. Extra outfits, extra shoes, extra products for occasions that rarely materialise. We seem to believe that the secret to a successful life is having absolutely everything within arm’s reach.
Mentally, we’re not much better. We carry conversations from three years ago, rehearse arguments that will probably never happen and hold on to old expectations of ourselves.
We take it all everywhere.
I wonder whether the appeal of travelling light is partly that it gives us a little break from this. For a few days, we have only what we brought. The decisions are fewer. You get dressed, go out and live your day.
Of course, a small suitcase won’t magically make you a more relaxed person. But there is something to be said for removing a few unnecessary decisions from your life.
I think back to my school days, carrying a huge bag full of heavy books, folders and pencil cases. You had everything with you because you needed everything with you. Now, I get a ridiculous amount of pleasure out of fitting most of my family into a carry-on.
Perhaps it’s the contrast. Perhaps I’ve simply discovered the freedom of not needing to bring your entire life with you whenever you leave the house.
Two weeks on a tour bus
We travel a lot, and I’ve become interested in the little rituals that make it work.
We once spent two weeks living on a tour bus while Luke was on his arena tour, and I loved the challenge of making a small amount of space feel like enough.
I took my Matchbox Bikini bits, naturally.
The black corduroy cap for the days when washing my hair wasn’t going to happen. The silk eye mask for sleeping wherever sleep was possible. Reusable under-eye patches, with a miniature Chanel eye cream tucked into the mix. And the terry set, which could be worn for a little workout in the venue but also doubled as a cover-up for walking down to the spa when we were staying in hotels.
Everything had a job. Ideally, two.
I wasn’t trying to make do without the things I loved. I was working out how to take them with me.
There’s a difference.
And I realise there’s a luxury in being able to pack lightly, knowing you can buy something if you forget it. I grew up very humbly, so I don’t take that flexibility for granted. But I do think there’s something useful in learning to make a few things work hard, wherever you are.
A little Matchbox philosophy
I suppose this is why I love the idea of the double-duty wardrobe.
A good bikini isn’t just for lying on a sun lounger. It’s for the spontaneous swim, the hotel pool, the afternoon that turns into an evening.
The corduroy cap isn’t just an accessory. It’s a solution to a bad hair day.
I like products that become part of your life rather than things you have to build an occasion around.
And I think there’s a certain chicness to that. Not the sort that requires a perfectly coordinated wardrobe or a suitcase full of expensive things, but the sort that comes from knowing yourself. Knowing what you like, what you’ll wear and what makes you feel good.
It’s the same principle I apply to packing the children. A few small toys, a couple of books, and the confidence that the rest of the world will provide something to look at.
A window seat. A swimming pool. A strange little street. A hotel breakfast. A new place to explore.
Sometimes, we don’t need to bring quite so much with us.
What if we stopped packing for every possibility?
There’s a particular kind of anxiety that comes from wanting to be prepared for everything.
Some of it is sensible. Some of it is habit. And some of it is the belief that if we prepare enough, we can avoid ever feeling uncomfortable or unprepared.
But life doesn’t really work like that.
The weather changes. Plans change. Children spill things. You forget something. Sometimes you arrive somewhere and realise you have absolutely nothing suitable to wear.
And then you work it out.
I think there’s a quiet confidence in knowing that you can.
Not because you have everything you could possibly need, but because you trust yourself to manage without it. To improvise. To make something work. To discover that the world doesn’t fall apart when you don’t have the perfect thing to hand.
Maybe that’s the real pleasure of a small suitcase.
It’s not simply the lighter luggage or the satisfaction of fitting two weeks into a carry-on. It’s the feeling that you can go somewhere with what you have, enjoy yourself and let the rest take care of itself.
You don’t have to bring your entire wardrobe.
You don’t have to bring every version of yourself, either.
Some things can stay at home.
Some things can be left in the past.
And some things, like a great bikini, a pair of ballet flats and a very good time, are worth making room for.
