I play this game in my head sometimes. Not dramatic like an apocalypse or anything, just the thought experiment: if I had to leave in ten minutes—no checklists, no luggage planning—what would I grab? What are the things I know I’d want with me because they work, because they’ve earned their place, because they’ve made life easier in small but consistent ways?
The trick is you don’t get to overthink it. No suitcase, just what fits in a backpack. Everything else stays behind.
First thing’s always the same: my beat-up hoodie. It’s probably ten years old, the inside is thinning, and the color is faded in that way old black clothes fade into soft charcoal. But I swear it fits better every year. It’s the hoodie I grab when I’m sick, when I’m nervous, when I’m cold in a new place. It’s been shoved into overhead compartments, tied around my waist in airports, used as a pillow on long drives. Not fashionable. Not photogenic. But it stays.
Then my shoes—the ones that look like I’ve run a marathon through mud (I haven’t) but still feel right no matter how far I walk. If I had to start fresh anywhere, I’d want those shoes. No break-in period, no blisters, no drama. Just go.
My notebook comes too. I don’t write in it every day, but when I do, it’s important. It’s the place where things make sense that didn’t before. Lists, half-thoughts, quotes, song lyrics that get stuck in my head—everything goes in there. It’s not precious. There’s coffee stains on page three. But it’s mine.
Then there’s the pouch of small essentials I always keep nearby anyway. Not emergency gear, just quiet heroes. A charger that actually works. A pen that doesn’t leak. Earplugs, because I can’t count on the world to be quiet. A few safety pins. A cloth that cleans screens, sunglasses, and the occasional camera lens.
In that pouch is also a slim bottle of rosewater toner. I never used to care about stuff like that. I thought toner was just water in a fancy bottle with a $22 price tag. But this one—it’s subtle. Not sticky, not overly fragrant. Just one of those “I feel better now” things. I use it on tired mornings, after flights, on sunburns, even once on a bug bite because I didn’t have anything else. It’s not flashy, but I’d miss it fast.
I’d grab a book I’ve already read but wouldn’t mind reading again. Something with underlined sentences and pages that open on their own from being folded back too many times. I’ve learned that re-reading is comforting when everything else feels new and strange.
Snacks are non-negotiable. A bag of almonds, maybe a dark chocolate bar, and something salty—crackers, chips, whatever fits. Being hungry is never the vibe I want to bring into an unknown place. Food is peace.
I’d throw in a solid shampoo—one of the best shampoo bars I’ve ever found, which I now cut into smaller chunks and keep in a tin. No leaking bottles, no spills. It does what it needs to without making a mess or taking up room. I’ve tried a lot, but there’s one that always leaves my hair feeling clean, soft, and not like I just washed it with dish soap. It doesn’t scream “miracle product,” it just works. That’s enough.
Maybe a t-shirt I love. A clean pair of socks. Something I can wear for more than a few hours without wanting to rip it off. Clothing that fits no matter how bloated, tired, or sunburned I get.
Headphones. Obviously. I don’t even need music all the time. Sometimes I just want to block things out. Sit in a corner, let the world mute itself for a bit. Having a soundtrack helps, but sometimes silence through earbuds is the soundtrack.
My water bottle. Dented and scratched. Stickers peeling. But I don’t trust myself to remember to drink water unless it’s with me. Airports, buses, waiting rooms, long walks—I always end up reaching for it.
One or two sentimental items, depending on space. Not because I’m trying to be emotional, but because sometimes a familiar object is what keeps the panic at bay. A photo. A small rock I picked up on a good day. Something tactile and grounding.
If I had time, I’d grab my camera. Not for content. Not for social media. Just because taking photos makes me slow down and look at things differently. I miss less when I’m behind a lens. It helps me stay present, even while I’m documenting.
What’s funny is that half the things I’d pack if I had to leave in ten minutes aren’t the things I used to think were important. They’re not status items. They’re not trendy. They’re not part of some perfected capsule wardrobe or productivity toolkit. They’re just the things that earned my trust when I wasn’t paying attention.
They’re what I kept reaching for on hard days. The stuff that showed up without asking for much. No promises. No hype. Just useful, reliable, comforting in their own quiet way.
I think that’s what I care about now. Not finding the best version of everything. Just the right version for me. The stuff that feels like mine not because I bought it, but because I’ve used it enough to forget what it was like without it.
If I ever really do have to leave in a hurry, I hope I remember that it’s not about grabbing everything—it’s about grabbing the things that matter. The things that help me feel a little more like myself in the middle of whatever comes next.
Because that’s what these things are, really. Tiny anchors. Little fragments of routine and comfort I can take with me. Reminders of normal, even when everything around me is anything but.
