We said goodbye in Taipei. Before this, I didn’t even know where Taipei was. I didn’t know it was the capital of Taiwan, and I didn’t know this would be where we would part ways. We had been together for a good, solid four years. You hung by me through some of my most trying yet becoming times. You supported me and carried everything that was essential to me. You never complained about what I threw at you. You took me as I was and I did the same for you.

You were worth your weight in gold to me, and even more. Yet, when the time came of our separation, so unexpectedly, painfully even, I felt relief I couldn’t really comprehend. Perhaps it was weight lifting off my shoulders or the idea of carrying less baggage. I'm still not sure. All I knew was that it disturbed me. Nevertheless, I chose to fight for you and while fighting away the unfamiliar and uncomfortable sensation of relief. I chose to keep us together for as long as I possibly could. With determination and great intention, I was able to bring you with me as far as Taipei.

On June 2, 2016, my sister and I arrived at the LAX airport with high hopes, uneasy stomachs and heavy bags. Even though we both tried meticulously to pack lightly for our two-week volunteer trip to Bali, Indonesia, our efforts fell short. Our full-size suitcases didn't seem to suffice our needs, thus leaving us with our only other option: carry-on bags. As my sister went through her options, I knew exactly what bag I wanted to bring and I knew exactly what I wanted to put in it: my laptop to work on the book I'm editing; my sketchbook to make sure I write down and draw everything see, think and wonder; my camera to capture every moment of my trip; and my favorite children's book, "The Giving Tree," to share with the children I'd be teaching in Ubud, Bali.

I was so confident in my choice. Not for the slightest moment did I worry or wonder if bringing you along with me to Bali would be a mistake, even though both my mother and sister warned me against it. They thought you were too big, too bulky, even too heavy, but I paid no mind. I knew we had a special connection, a bond of pure trust. I carried your weight while you carried mine. We were the best of pairs. You were reliable, flexible, strong and determined to be mine. You were my favorite, for lack of a better word, absolute favorite bag. You were a beautiful, brown leather bag, aged gracefully with memories of our time spent together.

While in search a place to eat at the LAX airport, I carried you proudly on my left shoulder while you carried parts and pieces of me. All of a sudden, while walking (perhaps it was wandering), your beautifully strong and sturdy strap just snapped. All your weight, the 9.2 pounds of me you held so dutifully, came crashing down to the floor. With the fall also fell my heart. I couldn't believe what just happened. I tried to hold my composure while the dreaded words of "I told you so" slipped so slyly out of my sister's mouth.

No! No one told me so. No one knew you better or loved you more than I did. I blame myself. I put too much weight in you. Perhaps I wore you out too quickly. Maybe I shouldn't have packed that last book, Murakami's "After the Quake." I wasn't even sure if I would have enough time to finish reading it. I guess I may have overpacked. I'm sorry I wore you out. I'm sorry I took advantage of your strength. You never failed me before, so I thought you wouldn't this time, either. Bravely and boldly, I believed you would never fail. I knew deep down that this was the romantic in me speaking, but I let its hot air fly me high above realistic expectations.

Nevertheless, reality struck us hard. You snapped and couldn't be repaired. My sister witnessed my despair. She insisted on helping me fix you. We tried, she tried, I tried, but you had a great fall, and you couldn't be put back together at all. With time rushing us towards our gate where we would be boarding our flight for Bali, we hurriedly emptied you out and stuck you inside my carry-on luggage. Thank God we decided to bring that extra luggage with us, thinking we might need more room for the goodies we would bring back from Bali. Just in the nick of time, you were packed away in the luggage and rolled on board with us to our flight.

Before reaching Bali, we had a four-hour layover in Taipei. Arriving in Taipei, after a 14-hour plane ride, we were absolutely exhausted and I must admit carrying you in the luggage was like carrying dead weight. I knew I had to do something. I knew I couldn't take you to Bali, in hopes of repairing you and then bringing you back to L.A. with me to continue our lives together. Every bone in my being knew this: We knew we had to let you go. Deep down, the relief I'd left in LAX began to make sense. I began to realize that it was time to let go. Nothing lasts forever, in a physical form at least, and I began to realize that I could no longer carry you with me.

Minutes before boarding our second and final flight to Bali, I made the brave choice of letting you go. I knew it was unfair of me to let you go in some foreign country in some foreign room with some foreign people. You were so dear to me, but I wouldn't--just couldn't--prolong the suffering. I knew I had to let you go. I simply just needed to decide how. I knew I didn't want to simply throw you away. Remember, you were worth your weight in gold to me. I realized that the best way to do this was to give you away. I would hand you over so someone else, because you weren't dead or destroyed, you were just no longer mine. So, as I carried your empty form, your cold leather warmed up in my hot, blood-rushed hands.

I walked over to the service desk and tried my best to communicate my intentions to the stewardess. I simply told her that I could no longer carry this bag with me. I explained that the strap had snapped beyond my ability to repair it. I'm not sure if she understood me. Her English was as broken as you, as us. Nevertheless, she took you off my hands. I had insisted to her that you weren't trash, that you were still of great worth. With a kind smile, she reassured me and set you down behind the counter. As my sister and I boarded the plane, I sent you my love and appreciation with the gesture of a wave. Perhaps people around me wondered why.

With a heavy heart but clear conscience, I left you in Taipei. We said our goodbyes and parted ways. Sometimes you have to let go of something old, no matter how cherished, in order to gain something new, no matter how uncertain. We said goodbye in Taipei, but perhaps you said hello to someone new. Every ending is a new beginning, and this is ours. Here we go.