The Overpacked Bag
July 2000.
I had just dropped out of Penn Vet School and was supposed to begin a PhD program in biochemistry at Penn by August 1st. Somewhere in my mind, I believed I had the summer to “find myself” before real life resumed.
So I pointed myself west from the Atlantic Ocean in Delaware and started walking.
I packed for survival.
Two weeks worth of food. Winter clothes for the mountains of Colorado. Extra gear. Backup plans. Contingencies.
The next day, in 90 degree heat somewhere between Delaware and Maryland, I dumped 11 days worth of food and most of my winter clothes.
I was never more than a few miles from food or water.
I had packed for conditions that did not exist.
At the time, I thought I was preparing responsibly. Looking back, I think I was carrying fear.
Fear of uncertainty. Fear of not knowing who I was. Fear that if I did not carry everything myself, I might not make it.
The trail taught me something I would spend the next 25 years relearning:
Just because you can carry something does not mean you should.
At the time, I thought the goal of the trip was to “find myself.” I thought identity was something waiting for me somewhere out west. Some final answer I would stumble upon before August arrived.
Instead, the trail began teaching me something much less dramatic and much more useful.
Movement creates clarity.
And clarity often starts by lightening the load.
As the weeks went on, I slowly became fascinated with ultralight backpacking. Not the extreme version where people cut toothbrushes in half and sleep under plastic tarps in snowstorms. But the philosophy behind it.
Every ounce matters over long distances.
The lighter your pack, the farther and freer you can move.
Experienced backpackers are not reckless. They still carry shelter, food, water filtration, navigation tools, and first aid. They simply become more intentional about every ounce they choose to carry.
Ultralight backpacking is not carrying nothing.
It is carrying intentionally.
That distinction matters in life too.
Especially for ambitious people.
Many of us slowly build identities around heaviness. Overloaded calendars. Endless responsibility. Hyper independence. Carrying everyone. Carrying everything. We mistake exhaustion for importance and suffering for strength.
But strength is not measured by unnecessary suffering.
Years later, reading Siddhartha and learning more about Buddhism, I recognized the same pattern. Siddhartha first lived in excess. Then he swung completely the other direction, annihilating himself through deprivation and self denial. Eventually, he arrived at what Buddhism calls the Middle Way.
Not excess. Not emptiness.
Intentionality.
The answer was not carrying everything. But it also was not carrying nothing.
Wisdom rarely lives at the extremes. More often, it lives in learning what deserves to stay.
Somewhere in Colorado later that summer, Tim and I kept smelling something strange in the air. Someone casually explained it to us:
“They burn blood on Thursday.”
Apparently, the rendering plants nearby were processing animal waste, and the smell drifted through town once a week. We laughed about how absurd the phrase sounded and joked that someday it would make a great chapter title in a book.
Twenty five years later, I think I understand why the line stayed with me.
Rendering plants transform what remains into something usable.
Not everything old is meant to be carried forward intact.
Some things become fuel for the next phase.
That summer, I was unknowingly learning the difference between preservation and transformation.
The raft matters. Without it, you never cross the first stretch of water. But eventually, carrying the entire raft on your back becomes impossible. Parts of it become the backpack itself. Some pieces become tools. Some become fuel. Some get left behind entirely.
Not because they were mistakes.
Because they already did their job.
Midlife can feel a lot like reopening an old backpack.
At first, life is mostly accumulation. More goals. More skills. More possessions. More responsibility. More proving. More expectations. More contingency plans.
Then one day you realize the pack has become heavy again.
Success adds weight too.
So do businesses. Families. Titles. Fear. Control. Old coping mechanisms. Old definitions of achievement. Even identities that once protected us can eventually begin slowing us down.
Sometimes the heaviest things in our backpacks are the things that once helped us survive.
And sometimes the real work is not adding more.
It is finally stopping long enough to ask:
What am I still carrying that no longer serves me?
What did I pack for conditions that no longer exist?
What fears once protected me but now slow me down?
What deserves to stay?
Even ultralight backpackers slowly accumulate weight again.
Life does that. Success does that. Responsibility does that. Fear does that.
The practice is not becoming permanently weightless.
The practice is periodically reopening the pack.
Carry what matters.
Burn the rest.
If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear what you’re learning to let go of in this season of life.