Before my father was confined to a wheelchair — when he was still able to walk with assistance — he acquired a fine collection of walking sticks. Some were hand-carved and elegant; others were whimsical and brightly colored. I would bring him a new one every time I traveled. His favorite cane, though, turned out to be the one he never even saw.

I’d purchased it in Santiago de Compostela, Spain, after solo-walking the Camino de Santiago. The cane was some sleek, golden hardwood I couldn’t identify, lacquered to a fine sheen, and embedded with scenes of St. James’ legendary pilgrimage. It wouldn’t fit in my backpack like my collapsible hiking poles, so I carried it for several days. On the bus to Finisterre, through the tiny airport in Santiago, around Barcelona, and into Paris for my final flight home. Somewhere in Charles De Gaulle airport, I set it down and forgot to pick it back up.

At my departure gate, I suddenly realized I didn’t have the cane. I thought about the places it could be — the bar, the news stand, the loo — but I didn’t go back. I made the same decision that had become my default in every area of my life.

I abandoned it.

I had invested a hefty sum and much inconvenience in this gift, but I was tired of carrying it. Tired of bumping it into things, tired of dropping it between seats, tired of negotiating space for it.

I have abandoned full suitcases in Mexican hotels, forsaken costly purchases in European airports, and once left a lover in a Caribbean resort. Just got on a plane and took off. My mother’s sterling silver is in a storage pod somewhere — I don’t remember which one, and I have them in three states. I’ve quit jobs by going to lunch and never coming back, left apartments full of furniture, stepped over carefully packed water-resistant bins and just walked away.

My ability to detach myself from my possessions was put to the test when I started researching my Gap Year — a year of writing and travel with minimal plans. I was happy to sell or store my belongings, but packing for the trip itself turned into a mighty challenge:

I had to confine my luggage to only what I could manage by myself: one cross-body purse, one backpack, one roller bag. (I was on a train in Croatia once, unable to wrangle my suitcases out of the exit in time, and missed my stop. Two hours later, a hotel room in the wrong city, and a day lost getting back to my original destination made a lasting impression.)

• I decided to break up the trip by season, so I could pack for Europe in the fall, southeast Asia in winter, South America in the spring. This way I can purge and replace my wardrobe every three months, instead of trying to bring it all.
• I realized that carrying extra stuff gives me the illusion of being safe and self-reliant — of having everything I could possibly need — when in fact, the exact opposite is true. It makes me vulnerable. It weighs me down, hinders my progress, and burns my fuel.
• When I’m overpacking, it’s because I get sucked into the idea that I can prevent disaster by preparing for any eventuality — that I have some control over the future. But in my experience, the things I worry about rarely happen. The misfortunes in my life have landed on my head like meteors falling out of the clear, blue sky. Shockingly unexpected, and catching me totally off guard.
• Since the disasters that do happen I’ll never see coming, why should I spend even one minute in panic mode? I could be doing something useful like sleeping late, writing a novel, sailing the open sea, or picking up handsome strangers in dark pubs.
• And when confronted with complications, haven’t I always figured out what to do? Haven’t I proven to myself, time and time again, that I can overcome adversity? That I’ll find what I need when I need it?

I’ll be homeless for the next year as I travel through my Gap Year. I’ve got sublets lined up and few stays with friends, but mostly I’ll be living out of my roller bag and backpack — only what I can carry. It sounds perilous, but the only real danger is that I might get over my fear of being tethered to things.

Refusing to worry — believing I will handle whatever happens — is an act of faith. I cannot truly believe that the Universe knows what it’s doing, and simultaneously believe that I have something to fear.

Which is how I abandoned a pair of shoes, a heavy sweater and a sewing kit in my London Airbnb last week. They were starting to weigh me down.

When I got home from the Camino, my dad was eager to see his new walking stick. He laughed at my dramatic tale of how I lost it, while I described its balance and stability, and the muted thump it made on the cobblestones. I told him how silky the wood felt, how glossy the painted scenes were, how I’d captured the memory like a photograph from an old camera, a hazy flash of light.

It became a private joke between us. People would compliment one of his other canes, and he’d throw me a wink and say, “Yes, this one is nice, but you should see the one from Santiago!”

I’d laugh and apologize again, but he’d say, “I can see it in my mind, bright and clear; do I need the thing itself? I know you saw something beautiful and thought of me. That’s enough.”

Occasionally, I regret my haphazard placement of my kids’ baby pictures or my grandmother’s china. I guess I should cherish the mementos from my travels, or the sentimental heirlooms of my family history. But now, in the last third of my life, the only things I hoard are emotions, connections, and memories.

That way I’m always home, no matter where I am..