Title: The Weight We Carry: Reflections on a Backpack and a Life

There’s a saying that goes something like, “You’re carrying the world on your back.” Another version whispers that we carry all the problems, the worries, the unfinished stories.

As I plan my 140+ mile walk on the Way of Saint Francis—from Rome to Assisi—I find myself thinking about that weight. Not just the physical kind, but the metaphorical kind. The kind that creeps in when we overpack—out of habit, anxiety, or the belief that more will make us feel safer. Spoiler: it doesn’t.

Overpacking has been one of my lifelong tendencies. I can’t tell you how many trips I’ve finished with untouched shirts, extra shoes, or a book I never opened—each one hauled across cities, countries, or continents for no reason other than “just in case.” I lugged that weight. I paid for that weight. And in the end, it served no real purpose—and certainly didn’t build any strength. It just wore me out.

So this time, I’m choosing differently.

After talking with seasoned pilgrims, doing an absurd amount of research, and learning from past blunders (like the time I bought a rolling duffel bag so massive someone could’ve curled up inside it—yes, I’m serious), I’ve come to a simple conclusion:

Smaller is better.

Most seasoned pilgrims seem to carry something between 30–35 liters. That’s it. And when I finally sat down and made a list of what I truly needed for this journey, I found myself slowly whittling it down. Too many pants. Too many shoes. That hardcover book I wanted to bring—do I really need it? I watched a video of a pilgrim who tore out the pages of his paperback as he read them so he wouldn’t carry any extra weight. These are serious people.

And then there’s me, wanting to bring my first edition Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac like some romantic wanderer with a literary mission. What’s wrong with me?

(Sidebar: you’ll have to ask me as I’m heading to the plane if I actually brought it or not—TBD!)

Here’s what I know about myself: the bigger the bag, the more I’ll fill it. It’s like a law of physics or psychology—or both. A perfect example? My last overseas trip. I bought this new rolling duffel bag, and I swear it looked like a body bag. And yes… I filled it.

Because I’m a tactile artist at heart, I actually brought my loom. Took it apart, packed it, along with an absurd number of balls of yarn—just in case inspiration struck. And to be fair, it did. I ended up making two beautiful scarves on that trip, passing time in airports, hotel rooms, and sunny piazzas as church bells chimed and people passed by.

I’m learning to resist that impulse. Or at least, to choose it more wisely.

At REI, I recently found a 34-liter pack that I really like. It’s lightweight, versatile, and—most importantly—it sets a limit. A dear friend even offered me a nearly new 22-liter pack, and while I appreciated the gesture, I knew the second I saw it—it wasn’t going to work. It looked more like a child’s lunchbox than a walking companion for hundreds of miles.

Choosing a pack is as personal as choosing shoes. And when you’re planning to walk all day, every day, for weeks on end, a backpack becomes your closest companion. It rides with you. It shares your sweat. It becomes part of your body.

So here are a few practical things I’ve learned to look for:

• Padded, oversized shoulder straps — to ease pressure and reduce shoulder fatigue.

• A wide, cushioned hip belt — so the weight rides on your hips, not your spine.

• Water-resistant material or an included rain cover — some packs come with a built-in cover, others include a separate one that stows away easily. Either way, you’ll want protection when the rain comes.

• A pack weight under 1.5 pounds when empty — because yes, that counts toward your total.

• Proper fit with multiple adjustment points — the more ways you can customize the straps, the better your pack will hug and move with your body. Get fitted in person if you can. Pack it with real gear (not just weights), walk around, and see how it feels.

My personal goal is to keep my total pack weight to no more than 10% of my body weight. I’m 160 pounds, so that’s 16 pounds max. And yes, that includes the bag itself, the contents, and that one small indulgence I’ll probably sneak in despite all this good advice.

(And if 16 pounds doesn’t sound like much, just ask my friend Joy, who’s got a 16-pound cat. Big, heavy, and oh-so-sweet—but definitely not something you want strapped to your back for 8 hours a day.)

And here’s something else I’m considering—on some days, I might not carry my full backpack at all. There are companies along the Way of Saint Francis that will pick up your bag in the morning and deliver it to your next stop for just a few euros. You contact them the night before—often through WhatsApp—and just like that, it’s taken care of.

This allows for a smoother, lighter day. A day when you’re not weighed down—physically or emotionally—and can just be more present. Because let’s be honest: it’s hard to enjoy the beauty around you when your shoulders are aching or your mind is overloaded.

Just like in life, when you’re carrying something heavy—grief, uncertainty, regret—you miss things. You move through the day distracted. The joy blurs.

So this journey is also about learning what to carry… and what to set down.

Each purchase I make now—a pair of socks, a travel-sized soap, a perfectly fitting backpack—brings me one step closer to the trail. And one step closer to the version of myself I want to meet on it.

I’ll let you know what I end up getting and the specifics in a later post.

And in my final post before I leave, I’m planning to share a visual: either a time-stamped photo or a short video of everything that makes the final cut into the bag—just to give you a glimpse of what I’m bringing, and what I’ve decided really matters.

For now, I’m just trying to keep it light. In every sense of the word.

What resonated with you in this post? Is there something you’ve learned to carry differently—literally or symbolically—in your own life?

I’d love to hear.