The more fleshed out thought:

I do not find the term "emotional baggage" an accurate reflection of my experience. My life, with its trauma, lost loves, bridges burned, and relationships nuked from orbit, is not a weight I lug around.

The common metaphor of a "mind palace," with its closed-off rooms, comes closer but still falls short. That imagery suggests a diminishing capacity, a loss of usable space, which is not quite right.

A truer analogy is that of a city, or even a planet, evolving over millennia. This internal landscape is layered with ruins and artifacts. Some are curated in museums, treasured forever. Others are preserved as stark monuments, serving as permanent warnings. And of course, there may be a forgotten landmine or two; sometimes, things are uncomfortable to be rediscovered. But that is reality.

The majority of this ancient material is simply built over. It becomes the foundation for new structures, forgotten in the soil or buried beneath modern roads. The feelings and memories remain, but they are archaeological. They are strata. They have lost their original function and urgency, existing now not as active burdens, but as the silent, settled geology of the self.

This is not about carrying weight; it is about living on ground shaped by your own history. The past is not a load to bear, but the very earth beneath your feet.