It was time for a purge. I had no idea how much those trinkets would be worth

3 days ago 4

Opinion

October 17, 2025 — 11.03am

The tiny secure office was on a high floor in a Collins Street building. Buzzed in after a security camera check, I stood with fluorescent lights humming overhead, watching a stranger weigh my past.

The gold Kozminsky studs my ex gave me on my 28th birthday. Too matronly then, too loaded now. Five broken hoop earrings. A St Christopher medal from God knows when. The gold dealer handed me an envelope with $873 cash, and I felt nothing.

With gold prices at record highs, people are cashing in on their old jewellery.

Well, not totally true. I felt no regret. But I felt lighter. The eastern suburbs matrons who’d whispered that this gold guy was the hottest contact in town were right. A purge of the jewellery box and an impersonal handover felt really good.

Nothing revolutionary, but I’ve been cleaning house. Literally and emotionally.

Spring has called for washing winter windows and dog-muddied floors. My birthday last weekend – final one with a five in front, as about 20,000 friends noted – was stripped back from the usual party chaos. Think pickleball and a passionfruit sponge from the servo then a late afternoon lie down with my darling, watching the Bathurst cars and pashing.

Now the wardrobe, sprawling across multiple rooms a la the Guggenheim Collection, needs a purge too.

Daily, it makes me think two things. One: for a past Kate. Not sure when next I’ll clip-clop up the Ocean Grove main drag in Saint Laurent Tribute sandals and Acne dresses.

Two: all this stuff used to be money. Enough to put on a second storey or build a submersible. Why did I choose more Breton tops and oddly creepy vintage nighties over experiences? And it’s all still costing me something to keep: mental rent.

Then there’s the friend. Almost 40 years of history, of being hand-in-hand at weddings, deaths, divorces, delivery suites, and it’s been radio silence since my book came out four months ago.

She knows what writing it cost me – two years, the vulnerability of mining personal disasters, the excitement of actually bloody finishing it.

Nothing. Not a text. Not a like on Insta.

I’m legit super hurt but also wondering if I’m looking at this wrong. Maybe I’ve made it too much about me. Maybe she’s knee-deep in her own battles. And yet her support has been my emotional foundation forever.

We’ve passed the baton of care since we were unmarried girls, knowing what the other needed, so I’m bereft at the lack of cheerleading at a time I wanted her to be proud of me. Am I keeping this beloved friendship or cleaning house?

Next on the block: the almost-new Callaway golf clubs (short women, seriously, come take them). The 1970s glass candlesticks that burn wicks floating in water and vegetable oil. Three Bundt cake tins. Shane Warne’s phone number.

The fabulous lemon tree savaged by possums and lingering for months on life support. Someone has to call it. The sugar addiction making my heart race. The Valium. Even the melatonin. See ya drugs, I’m reclaiming my complicated sleep.

What’s behind the house cleaning? I might blame Zach Merrett, my courageous, turncoat Essendon captain. Watching him angle for a fresh start at a new club amid duelling accusations of grave treachery or brilliant foresight has been weirdly motivating.

Fresh starts sometimes sting. Sometimes they feel like betrayal. But they’re worth a crack if your heart says it’s time.

Cleaning house isn’t just about throwing shit away. It’s about making room. Room for what fits now, not what fit 20 years ago. Room for people who show up. Room to know what you want.

I reckon letting go isn’t actually about loss. It’s about confronting how much we carry around, both what we see and what we can’t.

I’m 59 with a carry-on bag for Bali this week, $873 in folding and an increasing intolerance for sentimentality. I want to travel light in all ways through life.

We tell ourselves hanging on is safer but it feels ace to weigh, sell, donate, walk away. The gold dealer didn’t care about the stories behind my pieces, and neither do I anymore.

Kate Halfpenny is the founder of Bad Mother Media and the author of memoir Boogie Wonderland.