I have emotional baggage, but it’s not what you think. In fact, after years of collecting it, I actually enjoy hauling it out whenever I can. Oh sure, there have been times when it's seemed like more of a burden than a boon, but I can honestly say that it's gotten me where I am today…

…a house in the suburbs with a garage stuffed with enough old backpacks, gym bags and suitcases to give Overstock.com a run for its money. We're talking 20 years of luggage, and it takes me back every time I get ready to hit the road.

Take the beat-up suitcase in the corner, a two-buck tag-sale treasure that went perfectly with the “vintage” (read “thrift-store”) wardrobe that I favored in college. With its worn leather handle and faded houndstooth pattern, it was already so tired-looking that I called it my Death of a Salesman suitcase. Alas, just like Willy Loman, it was cast aside as old age and hard travel took their inevitable toll.

As I moved into my post-college career as a ski bum, I began carrying things better suited to a life of serious slacker-dom: a sturdy ski bag, a frayed duffel and the ubiquitous backpack of my “people.” I traveled fast and (relatively) light. There was no problem a quick-release buckle couldn't contain, and nothing a little duct tape wouldn't fix. Those were good times.

It couldn't last, of course, and I eventually put away my childish things for…well…other childish things. The car seat. The stroller. The portable playpen. As a new husband and father, I hauled it all. And I did it more or less willingly, because I felt like I'd become part of something bigger. In reality, I had literally become something bigger: a family pack mule trudging through life with a double-wide load of washable canvas and pink plastic.

Now that my daughter's grown up, the kiddie gear has joined its predecessors in the garage, and most of my baggage battles are with my wife's favorite bag: a wheeled behemoth known as Big Red. To be honest, I have no idea what she fills it with—strangely, my help isn't appreciated during the packing process—but I'm pretty sure I'll be lugging it around the next time we travel.

And when we get home, I'll take ol' Red out to the garage, heave it onto the shelf and realize once again that the whole cluttered collection is proof that every trip we take is part of the larger journey we make through life. If that constitutes emotional baggage, I'm more than happy to carry it.