How 100 Pounds of Luggage Taught Me to Travel Lighter in Life

There are moments in life when you pack for a trip… and then there are moments when you pack for the end of the world as we know it. I, apparently, chose the latter when I prepared for Alaska.

In my defense, I had never been to Alaska, and I don’t like being cold. Also, there was a volcano warning at the time, so I tucked a chemical filtration mask into my suitcase like it was my birthright. As one does.

But the truth beneath all that weight—both literal and symbolic—is that I was scared.
Scared to leave home.
Scared to be alone.
Scared to step into a version of myself I didn’t yet know.

So naturally… I packed 100 pounds of protection.

When Your Suitcase Has More Commitment to the Trip Than You Do

My partner lifted my suitcase at the airport with the resigned expression of a man assisting someone relocating to Mars. The airline attendant scowled. I ignored them both. I was certain everything I packed was essential to my survival.

But when I arrived in Anchorage and tried to lift the suitcase off the carousel, it lifted me instead—like a clingy toddler who refuses to let go of your leg.

If emotional baggage ever wanted a physical form, it would be that suitcase.

The Staircase of Doom (and Revelation)

By the time I dragged my belongings to my Airbnb, the staircase looked like a wooden ladder to the afterlife. Each step whispered:
“Are you sure you needed twelve sweaters, Nicole?”

Halfway up, I reconsidered every life decision that brought me there, including the volcano mask. But there was no turning back. Alaska had me. And so did my luggage.

My first night in Anchorage?
Not spent exploring. Not spent marveling at snow-capped mountains.
Nope.

I passed out behind blackout curtains, defeated by my own belongings.

Watching Other Travelers Glide Through Life

Over the next weeks, something caught my eye:
Seasoned travelers floating in and out of hostels with backpacks so tiny they could be mistaken for lunch bags.

Meanwhile, I was sending home shipments from the post office like a woman slowly realizing she owns too much of everything—including fear.

Every box I mailed away felt like a confession:
“I didn’t need this.”
“I never needed that.”
“I definitely didn’t need the third pair of snow boots.”

The Sacred Art of Putting Things Down

Here’s what surprised me most:
The lighter my suitcase became, the lighter I became.

I had space to breathe again.
Space to enjoy the people I met.
Space to see the mountains instead of my anxieties.

And that’s when I understood:

We don’t carry baggage because we need it.
We carry it because we don’t yet trust ourselves without it.

But life—like Alaska—has a way of inviting us forward. And it often asks for just one brave act:

Put something down.
Then take one step.
Then another.

By the end of the season, I wasn’t paying extra baggage fees anymore. Not to the airline, and not to life.

And when I returned home, I realized that the heaviest thing I brought back wasn’t weight—it was wisdom:

Travel light.
Life is too beautiful, too brief, and too wild to drag around what was never meant for the journey.