I walked up to the ticket counter, lugging two large suitcases, a car seat, and two backpacks. I was headed out on a ski weekend recently, and all the snow gear a weekend like that requires takes up too much space for a carry-on.
Upon approaching the counter, the ticketing agent greeted me and asked me where I was headed. “Denver,” I declare as I manhandle one of the two overpacked suitcases onto the conveyor belt. Eagerly, I checked the scale to ensure my bag was under the 50lb limit for free bags. Snow gear isn’t heavy, just fluffy; I was well under the limit.
As I pulled the second bag on the belt he asked me if anyone had given me any luggage to carry that wasn’t mine. Yes, is what I wanted to say. How much time do you have? Instead, I chuckled and said, “No, this weight is all mine.”
Walking towards the security line, a lot lighter, I couldn’t help but think about the metaphor in that question. How long had I been carrying around the weight of someone else? The metaphorical baggage someone either forced or expected me to carry for them. And I always did because I thought I had to. Forty four years I’ve been on this earth, and it’s taken me this long to learn how to stop accepting the baggage other people give me and only carry my own. It was never mine to carry, but I wasn’t taught that.