Be Loyal to Your Future, Not Your Past

“The Bag I Carried”

For years, I carried a bag I didn’t realize was heavy.

It wasn’t leather or canvas or anything physical. It was invisible, but I felt it every day—a weight on my shoulders, a shadow over my decisions. It was full of memories, mistakes, regrets, what-ifs, and a voice that always whispered, “But that’s who you’ve always been.”

I dragged it into relationships that weren’t right for me. I unpacked it during job interviews, where confidence should’ve been. I even took it with me to bed at night, letting it play the highlight reel of everything I’d ever done wrong.

Until one day, I met someone who asked a simple question:

“Are you carrying this because it’s helping you—or because you’ve grown used to the weight?”

Her name was Maya. She wasn’t a therapist, or a mentor. She was just someone I sat next to on a delayed flight from Boston to Seattle. We had seven hours of conversation, the kind that feels like a mirror held up to your soul.

I told her about the opportunities I passed up because I didn’t feel good enough. The apologies I never gave. The dreams I’d shelved because life got in the way—or because I thought I’d missed the right time.

She listened without judgment. Then she leaned back, smiled, and said:

“You know, the past is a place of reference, not residence. You visit it to learn, not to live.”

That sentence changed my life.

For the first time, I started to question my loyalty.

Not to people or promises—but to my pain. I realized I’d made a quiet contract with my past, agreeing to let it define me. I told myself stories like, “I’m not the kind of person who succeeds,” or “That opportunity isn’t for someone like me.”

But were those stories true? Or just well-rehearsed?

We all have a past. And yes, it shapes us. But it doesn’t own us.

The job I didn’t get? Taught me resilience.

The relationship that failed? Showed me what love isn’t.

The moments I wish I could redo? Proved that I’m still growing.

But none of those moments are my identity. They’re chapters. Not the whole book.

After that flight, I did something I hadn’t done in years: I wrote down what I wanted for my future—not what I feared, but what I hoped for. I didn’t edit myself. I let it pour out.

I want to build something meaningful.

I want to speak without doubting myself.

I want to wake up excited about where I’m going, not haunted by where I’ve been.

Then I did something radical: I forgave myself.

Not because I deserved it right away, but because I couldn’t move forward while chaining myself to yesterday.

I started small. I applied for a job I thought was out of reach. I reached out to an old friend I’d ghosted during a rough season. I let go of a toxic pattern in a relationship I’d been afraid to end.

Each choice was a vote for my future. A declaration:

“I choose where I’m going over where I’ve been.”

Being loyal to your future doesn’t mean forgetting your past. It means putting your energy where it matters most—into who you’re becoming.

Loyalty to your past sounds noble until you realize it can trap you. It says, “You’ve always been this way.”

But loyalty to your future says, “You are capable of more.”

We don’t stay in childhood homes forever. Why do we live in emotional ones built from outdated versions of ourselves?

It’s been two years since that flight. I never saw Maya again, but I think of her often. That conversation taught me what no textbook ever did:

You don’t have to earn the right to grow.

You just have to let go of what no longer grows with you.

If you’re reading this and carrying your own invisible bag—filled with doubts, old identities, lost dreams—ask yourself:

Are you being loyal to your future, or to your past?

Because here’s the truth no one tells you:

Your future has never done anything to hurt you.

It doesn’t doubt you.

It isn’t ashamed of you.

It’s waiting—quietly, patiently—for you to choose it.