'I culled 70 per cent of my wardrobe while moving - here's what it taught me'

There is no concept that strikes fear into a fashionista's heart quite like the task of packing their life up – and crossing oceans with the entirety of it in tow.

For a keen opshopper and compulsive clothing hoarder (the most dangerous combination there is), the prospect of discarding even a single garment can feel akin to losing a limb.

But there I was mere months ago, face-to-face with that very prospect, feeling distinctly Rebecca Bloomwood-esque à la Confessions of a Shopaholic in my fashion-fuelled frenzy.

Ultimately, there was no way for my nervous system to differentiate between parting ways with a pair of '90s Pulp wedges (that haven't so much as glimpsed the sun in over three years) and being held at gunpoint.

Upon arriving in Sydney in October with two suitcases, a cat and 70 per cent less clothing, I felt set up for success – but the process of getting to that point proved an odyssey of epic proportions.

I'll be the first to admit I'm someone who places a great deal of sentimental value on my clothing. A single item can evoke a cascade of memories as vivid as the moment they were made.

Wherever I was, whoever I was with, whichever life event coincided with the purchase of that particular item; every fragment tends to make its grand (though at times, unwelcome) return the moment I set eyes upon it.

While this often makes donating items associated with negative memories a no-brainer (good riddance, Design Republique dressing gown), an equal portion of my time is spent grappling with the need to hold onto the good bits.

So with the immortal words of Marie Kondo front-of-mind, I set about achieving the daunting task of fitting a lifetime's worth of clothing into three vacuum seal bags – and moving on from sentimentality that no longer served me.

Part I: Practicality

The first iteration of the clothing cull was easy, as one would expect.

I was headed directly into the fiery throes of my inaugural Australian summer, as a Kiwi girl with a childhood comprised of gleeful snow days (and perhaps less-gleeful ice-related injuries).

Suffice it to say, my tipping point is around 27 degrees Celsius, tops. The winter woollies, therefore, were the first to face the chopping block.

Realistically, I wasn't going to need five near-identical scarves (even if my Nana had hand-knitted one for me when I was seven), nor 10 sweaters of varying garishness.

I'd never liked how I looked in beanies, so how was it that I'd accumulated not one, not two, but four?

The fact is, until you've manually laid out each and every item on the floor of your bedroom, you truly have no comprehension of how much stuff you own.

But peppered throughout the hoard of utter rubbish are those select items you struggle to part with; namely, the woollen coat that had been my loyal cold-season companion since the morning of my 18th birthday.

And sometimes, these are the items you need to remove from your life the most.

Countless versions of me had existed wrapped in that one single, unassuming Glassons offering – but to my surprise, the act of giving it away and saying goodbye to those versions felt oddly therapeutic.

Part II: Fashion Evolution

Following a (regretful) '70s wardrobe resurgence – the height of which saw me donning exclusively flares and bell sleeves – I'd found when it came down to it, nothing in my wardrobe truly reflected me anymore.

I'd tried on many hats from 18-24 ranging from modular to bohemian, but once I'd come out on the other side, I was faced with a hoard of clothing that no longer fit – in the metaphorical sense.

The past tends to linger in the form of unworn garments, and we inexplicably cling to them, reasoning some occasion will arise that calls for us to slot back into old eras.

But the fact is, culling your closet means making a conscious decision to let go of a version of yourself that no longer exists.

There's something to be said about how liberating it feels to shed your skin in this particular way.

It started with a very basic thought, that later proved to be the entire point: is this item aligned with my new life, and who I want to become? If yes, it earned its place in my Kmart suitcase. If not, to the Vinnies clothing bin it went.

Part III: Priorities

As I packed, vacuum sealed, donated and redistributed, I realised very quickly that I place far more value on items accumulated from travels, my countless sketchbooks and my dearly beloved cat Sushi than on clothing.

While the prospect of fitting everything I owned into checked baggage undoubtedly forced my hand, a clothing declutter did absolute wonders for my mental state.

I hadn't realised how trapped I'd felt by my old items, and in hindsight, sorting through them was a task I should have tackled much sooner.

According to Diane Roberts Stoler Ed.D and Phychology Today, the process of culling our closets resonates with our psyche for a number of reasons – beyond simply tidying up.

"Decluttering increases self-worth, creates healthy habits, and boosts productivity. A clean and tidy home can also improve sleep, boost mood, and promote relaxation," Dr. Stoler says.

"Decluttering a wardrobe offers a tangible starting point for reducing mental clutter and fostering a sense of calm."

And foster a sense of calm it did.

But beyond that, it felt oddly reflective – and like a step towards self-acceptance. After rall, something old and made for my size eight 22-year-old body realistically has no place in my new 10-to-12 life.

It wouldn't just restrict me physically, it would serve to stunt my personal growth as well.

Ultimately, I could no longer rely on the safety net of my clothing and external image to project the person I wished to be, or the life I wished to live. Afterall, I wasn't jumping ship from my old life for no good reason.

A clothing trail documenting all my past selves was not going to aid in becoming this newest version of me, nor would it facilitate the metamorphosis of my mid-twenties.

The second my frontal lobe developed, I realised I no longer needed these old pieces of me. It was high time to shed them, and emerge as the version of myself I will carry into the next stage of my adult life.

The onus is now entirely on me to decide what that will look like, and take the leap towards achieving it – without the clothing there to cushion the fall.