Hammock Time: Emotional Baggage and a Grief Case: A Traveler’s Guide to Heavy Lifting

Let’s talk luggage—not the kind with wheels and TSA-approved locks, but the kind you don’t check at the gate because it’s permanently strapped to your soul like a toddler in full-blown airport meltdown mode. I’m talking about emotional baggage. And for some of us, a grief case.

Now, I’ve been on this walk across the country long enough to realize I’ve picked up and dropped more than just blisters. I’ve carried guilt, regret, fear, hope, shame, second chances, third tries, missed calls, and unopened texts. I’ve unpacked things I thought I was done with, only to find them clinging to the lining like gum on a hot sidewalk. And I’ve accidentally taken on someone else’s emotional baggage—you know, like emotional luggage roulette at the baggage claim. “Oh! That rage isn’t mine—but I guess I’ll haul it around for a while.”

But the grief case—ah, that one’s different. That one has its own shape. It’s not soft-sided or expandable. It’s custom-fitted to the losses we’ve had.

Mine was packed early—my son was just seven when he lost his dad. My daughter was six. Two amazing humans who’ve carried more than most and still manage to show up in this world with resilience, humor, and a surprising number of snacks. And I, their mom, got handed the grief case with no instructions and a whole lot of sharp edges.

And here’s the thing about grief: it doesn’t lighten. Not really. You just get stronger. Or sneakier. Or you learn how to roll it behind you at just the right tilt so it doesn’t smack into everything in your path.

Sometimes I unzip it on purpose. Revisit the memories, sift through the anniversaries, smell the cologne that still clings to an old sweatshirt. Sometimes I manage it with a few tears and a deep breath. Other times it flattens me, unexpectedly, like a wave that forgot to announce itself. Either way, I repack it—maybe a little neater, maybe not. But always with care. Because that case doesn’t get left behind. It comes with me. Quietly. Always.

So how do we navigate relationships with all this baggage and a grief case in tow?

Carefully. Honestly. With humor, grace, and the kind of emotional bubble wrap that only comes from living through the stuff no one signs up for.

The truth is—we don’t need someone to carry our grief case for us. We just want them to know it’s there. Maybe sit beside us while we unzip it. Maybe help us fold the memories that won’t quite lay flat. And when the zipper jams, just hold the edge and don’t ask too many questions.

Same goes for emotional baggage. The best people won’t try to unpack it all for you or reorganize your compartments. They’ll just make room on the bench. They’ll wait until you’re ready. And they’ll offer snacks.

Because carrying things doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human. And a grief case? That just means you loved someone deeply. That you still do.

The goal in life isn’t to have zero baggage. That’s a myth cooked up by someone with no pets, no kids, and no exes.

The goal is to get through enough of it—to heal, to forgive, to let go and hold close just the right parts—so you’re not dragging around four mismatched suitcases anymore.

Maybe, just maybe… you get it down to a carry-on.

One that still fits in the overhead.

And still makes room for love, for laughter, and for snacks.