Packing is my pet hate.

The singer Seal, whose voice carries both power and tenderness, once said with disarming simplicity: “Packing is my pet hate.” At first, these words seem but a passing complaint, the muttering of one weary of suitcases and schedules. Yet when heard with the ears of wisdom, they speak to something deeper: the burden of preparation, the weight of transitions, and the restless tension between movement and belonging. For to pack is not only to fold garments, but to fold one’s life into a box, to leave behind what is known in order to face what is unknown.

When Seal calls packing his “pet hate,” he gives voice to a universal feeling. The act of preparing for departure is often heavier than the journey itself. Each object chosen is a decision, each item left behind a small surrender. It is in this choosing that the heart feels torn—between comfort and adventure, between stability and change. The ancients might say: the bag upon the back is never as heavy as the choices that fill it. Thus, Seal’s words, though light in tone, reveal the timeless struggle of departure.

The meaning deepens when we see packing as a metaphor for life itself. Each of us must decide what to carry along the journey of our years: what values, what memories, what loves. And like the traveler at his suitcase, we often carry too much. We cling to things that weigh us down, forgetting that the road rewards those who walk light. Seal’s dislike for packing may echo this greater truth—that the act of selecting and letting go is never easy, yet it is the essence of movement, the price of freedom.

History offers a striking example in the life of Alexander the Great. When his armies marched across Asia, he commanded that his soldiers burn their wagons and cast aside their excess belongings, for the weight of possessions slowed their stride. This act, though harsh, gave them speed and strength. In that moment, the conqueror understood what Seal expresses in jest: that the burden of preparation, of carrying too much, can be more hateful than the march itself. To move forward requires sacrifice.

The origin of Seal’s remark lies in his life as a musician, ever traveling between cities and nations, forever on the move. For such a one, packing is no rare task but a constant ritual, repeated endlessly. It is the symbol of transience, the reminder that he has no fixed dwelling. In his words is the longing for permanence, for a place where one need not fold and unfold life into bags, but can simply rest and belong. His “pet hate” reveals a deeper yearning: the desire for stillness amidst the motion of the world.

The lesson for us is clear: do not fear the labor of packing, in travel or in life, but do not love it either. Accept it as the necessary burden that allows the journey to unfold. Recognize that in order to step into the new, you must leave something of the old behind. Let not the hate for preparation turn you bitter, but let it remind you that life’s treasures are not in the luggage, but in the experiences waiting beyond the door.

Practical action flows easily from this wisdom. When you pack for travel, choose lightly. Do not burden yourself with excess, for the journey itself will give you what you need. And in life, pack your heart in the same way—carry love, courage, and humility, but leave behind resentment, greed, and fear. In this way, you will not be weighed down by the baggage of the past, but will move freely toward the future.

Thus, Seal’s playful confession—“Packing is my pet hate”—becomes a timeless teaching. It reminds us that while preparation may weary us, it is the doorway to transformation. To hate it is human; to endure it is wisdom. And to pack not only our bags but our lives with care and lightness is to walk the road of destiny unburdened, ready to embrace what lies ahead.