Everything I own fits into one backpack.
Albeit a large backpack — but not many people can make that claim.
We cling to things as a species. Maybe it’s worsened by mass production, the ease of access from places like Amazon, or our growing need for instant gratification. But the truth is, humans have always collected and yearned for physical possessions.
When my wife and I decided to condense our lives down to two backpacks, it felt impossible at first — especially with only three weeks to do it. But as we eliminated things from our life, we grew less attached to everything. The closer departure got, the easier it became.
The final days — deciding what mattered and what didn’t.
The last two days in the apartment, more things became dumpster food than I care to admit.
What Do You Actually Need?
What does one need to survive?
Food. Clothing. Shelter. Dreams. Goals.
And in Jess and I’s case — a good couple of lenses and camera bodies.
The one indulgence I carry is a keychain. It holds a memory from every place Jess and I have traveled together since moving to California in 2022.
Heavy in weight, heavier in meaning.
Is it heavy? Yes. Does it mean the world to me? Absolutely. And it’s worth every ounce as we add to it.
Beyond that — an electronics sleeve, laptop, phone, iPad, chargers, camera batteries, and storage.
No TV. No car. No house.
Just good light, mild weather, slow immersive travel, food that makes you never want to leave the table, and the kindness of strangers.
The Freedom in Carrying Less
The towel didn’t make the cut.
Having everything we own in a backpack means freedom.
It means we can rent a flat for 30–90 days and experience a place the way locals do. We buy groceries like they do. Dry our laundry like they do. Get our hair cut where they do.
For a moment in time, we get to live somewhere — not just visit it.
That kind of immersion is rare. And incredibly valuable.
To me, it doesn’t get any better than this.
Movement makes the stillness possible.
The Other Side of the Dream
That said — it isn’t always easy.
Stone houses on humid islands are cold. And keeping them dry is its own adventure. I was never an “all the windows open” kind of person — usually I’m trying to escape the heat.
But Sicily is different.
Cold in the shade. Warm and perfect in the sun. Gorgeous, but with a learning curve.
It took us a couple tries to get both the flat and the laundry dry — but we got there.
Learning the climate, one damp towel at a time.
December nights in southern Italy.
This life isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence.
Sometimes it’s 50/50. Sometimes it’s everything.
And every day, carrying less has given us more.
— Brooks
Field Notes
Infrequent letters accompanying new essays and photo work.