5 Stages of Packing for your Volunteer Adventure

You've probably heard of the five stages of grief. Well, I'm here to tell you there are five stages of packing too, and frankly they're not that different. There's denial, there's bargaining, and there's definitely a bit of crying into the darkness...

I've now packed for more trips than I ever imagined I would—especially for someone who doesn't even like flying. You'd think I'd have it down to a fine art by now. You'd be wrong. Every single time, I go through every single stage. So if you've got a trip coming up and you're already eyeing the suitcase with suspicion, this one's for you.

(I should say there are actually six stages. But the sixth is optional. Sort of.)

Stage 1: The wardrobe reckoning

It starts innocently enough. You open the wardrobe to see what you've got for a hot country, and you realise that your entire summer collection consists of three pairs of linen trousers, five t-shirts you wouldn't be seen dead in at home, and a sunhat that makes you look like Paddington Bear.

You pull everything out and lay it on the bed. You're feeling sensible. You've read the kit list. The kit list says: "Neutral colours, lightweight, breathable."

You look at your wardrobe. Your wardrobe says: "Best I can do is neon floral."

So you make a pile of Things That Will Definitely Work. It's a very small pile. Then you make a pile of Things That Might Work If I Don't Look in a Mirror. That pile is much bigger.

Stage 2: The great suitcase debate

This is where you stand in the middle of the room, hands on hips, staring at the suitcase.

It looks so small. How is your entire life for two weeks supposed to fit into that? You start doing the mental maths. Two weeks. Fourteen days. That's fourteen pairs of knickers, obviously, plus another fourteen "just in case." (Just in case what? Nobody knows. But every woman reading this knows you don't travel without the just-in-case knickers.)

Then there are the shoes. You need walking shoes. You need slip-ons for around the accommodation. You need water shoes for the waterfall day. You might need something slightly nicer for the final dinner. Suddenly you have four pairs of shoes and half the suitcase is gone before you've even packed a sock.

Stage 3: The food panic

I don't know what happens to our brains before we travel, but there's a moment during packing where we all convince ourselves that food doesn't exist outside our home country.

You find yourself standing in the kitchen staring at the tea bags. "Will they have tea?" Yes, Sheila, they have tea. Half the world grows tea. "Yes, but will it be MY tea?"

In go the Yorkshire Tea bags. In goes the Marmite. (Don't judge me. You haven't lived until you've had Marmite on toast after a long day in the heat.) In goes a stash of emergency cereal bars that will almost certainly melt into a single, sad, caramel-flavoured lump by day three.

Stage 4: The packing cube conversion

Now, if you haven't discovered packing cubes yet, stop reading this and go buy some. I was a sceptic for years. I thought they were for people who alphabetise their spice rack.

I was wrong. Packing cubes are a game changer.

You roll everything up (rolling is non-negotiable, folding is for amateurs), you stuff it into the cubes, you zip the cubes, and suddenly everything that was covering your entire bedroom floor fits into neat, tidy little bricks. It feels like witchcraft. You can fit tops in one, bottoms in another, underwear in the small one. You even have a cube for the "stuff I definitely won't need but packed anyway."

Stage 5: Unpack, repack, repeat

This is the stage where you realise that despite the witchcraft of the packing cubes, the suitcase weighs approximately the same as a small family car.

You lift it. You groan. You find the luggage scales. (The luggage scales that have a low battery warning and are currently flashing a question mark.) You hoist the suitcase up, squinting at the tiny screen: 22.8 kg. The limit is 23 kg.

You're 200 grams from catastrophe.

This is when the bargaining starts. Out comes the third book (you're only going to read one anyway). Out come two of the four pairs of trousers. The Marmite stays, obviously. Priorities.

By now you've tried to zip it up and it's doing that thing where the teeth separate in the middle. You know the one. You sit on it. You get your partner to sit on it. You negotiate with it. You whisper gentle encouragements to the zip. "Come on, darling, just another two inches..."

Bonus Stage 6: The shove

The suitcase is packed. It's zipped. It's standing by the front door, a monument to human determination.

And then you see it.

Lying on the back of a chair. The blue t-shirt with the butterflies. The one you specifically washed so you could bring it.

You don't reopen the suitcase. Oh no. That would be admitting defeat. That would disturb the delicate ecosystem inside.

Instead, you undo the zip by about four inches. You roll the butterfly t-shirt into a cylinder so tight it could be used as a structural beam. And you shove. You shove with your fingers, your knuckles, your car keys, whatever is to hand, until the blue fabric disappears into the dark interior like a letter into a postbox.

You zip it back up. Done.

And then you go

Here's the honest truth: within forty-eight hours of arriving, you will realise you've brought twice as much as you needed and half of what you actually wanted.

You'll be wearing the same two pairs of trousers on rotation because they're the only ones that are truly comfortable. You'll have completely forgotten about half the stuff in the bottom of your bag. And you will be having the time of your life regardless.

Because packing isn't really about the clothes, is it? It's about the anticipation. It's that nervous, excited energy of knowing you're about to step out of your everyday life and into something extraordinary.

And if all else fails? Someone on the trip will have brought whatever you forgot. That's the beauty of travelling with a group of women. There's always someone with spare wet wipes, a spare adapter, and a spare cup of tea.

Now go and pack. And don't forget the just-in-case knickers.

Sheila x