Lay Down the Backpack: Trading Burdens for Breathing Room

Have you ever hiked with a backpack that felt heavier with every step? At first, it seems manageable. But then your shoulders start to ache, your breath shortens, and every incline feels impossible. You finally stop to check what’s inside—and realize you’ve been carrying rocks. Not tools, not essentials. Just weight.

That’s what life can feel like when we hold on to things we were never meant to carry.

We stuff our invisible backpacks with guilt over past decisions, shame we never speak aloud, the pressure to be “fine” when we’re breaking, or the fear of not measuring up to someone else’s expectations. Over time, that weight doesn’t just exhaust us—it silences us. It keeps us stuck.

I know this because I’ve lived it.

For years, I carried the crushing belief that I had to fix everything on my own. I worried what people thought. I beat myself up for not healing fast enough, for slipping back, for grieving too long. I told myself that pain made me strong. But the truth? Pain only made me numb. And you can’t breathe when your lungs are full of survival.

Here’s what I’ve learned: Freedom starts when we pause long enough to take the backpack off.

And when we finally open it up and look inside, we can ask:

“Is this mine to carry?”

Most of the time, the answer is no.

That regret? It’s not helping you grow.

That shame? It’s not protecting you from anything.

That voice in your head saying you’ll never be enough? It’s lying.

Jesus said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28)

Not more advice. Not more expectations. Rest.

But here’s the part we forget—He can’t take what we won’t surrender.

So how do we start letting go?

Here’s one simple practice I’ve used:

1. Write it down. Name the burden honestly. No filter. No shame.

2. Ask yourself: “Is this true? Is this mine?”

3. Pray over it. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s just: “God, help me let this go.”

4. Tear it up. Burn it (safely). Trash it. Physically release it. Let it be gone.

5. Tell someone you trust. Saying it out loud takes its power away.

Let me tell you a little about me.

There was a night—one of many—where I sat in the dark, worn out from running. I wasn’t running from people anymore. I was running from myself. From everything I had done. From everything I didn’t want to be true.

If you could’ve seen inside the backpack I carried, you would’ve found it overflowing with things I didn’t want anyone to know about. The lies I told to cover up the damage. The manipulation I used to survive. The fake smiles I wore so no one would look too closely. The times I stole—not just things, but trust. The deceit. The people I hurt, some who still don’t know how deeply. I carried every bit of it, zipped up tight, pretending it wasn’t there.

But it was heavy. So heavy.

And that night, I finally fell to my knees—not in some dramatic, movie-worthy way, but quietly, with shaking hands and a tired soul. I whispered, “God, I don’t want to carry this anymore.”

And the wild thing? He didn’t meet me with shame. He met me with grace.

He didn’t ask for me to be fixed. He just asked me to be honest.

That moment didn’t erase my past. It didn’t magically put all the pieces back together. But it gave me permission to stop pretending. It gave me the courage to start telling the truth—to myself first, then to the people I’d wronged, one by one.

And slowly, the backpack got lighter.

Not because I earned forgiveness, but because I accepted it.

And if you’re reading this, carrying your own weight, feeling like it’s too late or too far gone—I promise you, it’s not.

You don’t have to keep dragging what’s breaking you. You don’t have to be who you were just to survive.

There’s freedom in the first step.

One more breath. One more truth. One more chance to lay it down.

It wasn’t magic. It was surrender.

We don’t need to earn peace.

We just have to make space for it.

This week, I challenge you: Lay down one rock.

Write it down. Toss it. Tell me about it in the comments—or just sit with it quietly. Either way, you’re not doing this alone.

Breath-Prayer for the Week:

“God, take what I was never meant to carry. Fill me with what frees me.”

—

You’ve got one more breath in you.

Take it.

Use it.

Let it be the start of something lighter.