Happy Mood
1. When Driving Stops and Walking Begins
There’s something that happens when you start walking everywhere. I don’t mean hiking or backpacking. I mean just regular walking — like to the corner store, the train station, a park bench where you eat a too-salty sandwich. The kind of walking where you’re not trying to be fit or anything. You’re just… moving through life on foot.
I used to drive everywhere. Quick errand? Car. Friend’s house two blocks away? Still car. But after my old Honda gave up on me in a very dramatic puff-of-smoke kind of way, I figured I’d try doing life differently, at least for a while.
2. The Birth of the Bag
That’s when the bag happened. At first it was just keys and my phone. But then I got caught in the rain without a hood. So I added a fold-up poncho. Then there was the time I tripped over a curb and needed a bandaid. Add a mini first-aid kit. You know how this goes.
Eventually, the bag got some personality. Snacks made their way in (dried mango, energy bar, one sad pack of almonds). A tiny paperback book that smells like my grandmother’s attic. A sharpie. No idea why, but it’s there now. Lip balm, a reusable shopping bag, a notebook with three things crossed off and twenty blank pages. A rock I picked up at the beach because it looked like toast. (It still does.)
3. Small Wins and Pocket Miracles
At some point, I realized I had my life in a bag. Like, not metaphorically. Just literally. The things that make me feel prepared, or comfortable, or like I won’t totally fall apart if the afternoon takes a weird turn. One day I was out way longer than expected, had a bit of lunch stuck in my teeth (don’t judge), and I was thrilled to remember I had bamboo floss stashed in the side pocket. It wasn’t even intentional — I just grabbed it one day and forgot it was there. But man, that moment? I felt like an absolute genius. I flossed under a tree. Nobody looked. It was fine. This is how it happens, by the way. You start collecting small wins. You remember how good it feels to have the thing you didn’t know you’d need until you needed it.
4. Learning to Notice, One Step at a Time
I also carry a small sewing kit now. Just a few needles, thread wrapped around an old gift card, and two safety pins. Once used a pin to fix a friend’s broken sandal. Once used a needle to fix my sleeve at a coffee shop, stabbing myself twice in the process. Still, I don’t regret having it.
And yes, I keep a razor for women in there. Not because I need to shave mid-walk, obviously. But because I stayed overnight somewhere unexpectedly once, and now I like knowing it’s an option. It’s tucked away in a little pouch with other “just in case” things, like face wipes and a hair tie and those little laundry sheets that dissolve in water (you never know when a sink becomes a washing machine).
People think I’m overprepared. I probably am. But walking makes you notice what you don’t have. Cars are little comfort bubbles. They hide you from the world. When you walk, you deal with the weather, the weird smells, the awkward encounters, the hunger that shows up early, and the boredom that shows up later. And you deal with yourself, which is maybe the hardest part.
5. The Walkers — and the Stories They Carry
Walking also slows everything down. Which is nice until you’re late. But usually, it’s just enough time to think. Sometimes I talk to myself — not like full conversations, but those little muttered phrases when you’re figuring something out. Other times, I pretend I’m on a podcast. No one’s listening, but I narrate anyway.
“I think the thing about mustard is that people overdo it,” I’ll say, walking past someone’s mailbox. I’ll stop at a community library box and find a book about birds. I’ll wave at a cat. I’ll remember a dream I had months ago that never made sense. And by the time I get home, I’ll feel like I went somewhere much farther than I did. One of my favorite things about walking more is that it made my world feel both bigger and smaller. Bigger, because I notice more. Smaller, because it takes longer. You can’t rush the world on foot. You meet it slowly. Sometimes reluctantly. And the bag? It’s proof that I’m trying. That I care enough to be a little ridiculous. That I’ve learned from my mistakes, like getting a sunburn on just one ear. (Hat now lives in the bag, too.)
There are days I leave the bag behind, just to prove I can. But I always walk a little faster, just in case I need to get home quicker. I miss it. Like an odd little sidekick.
So if you ever see someone pulling floss out of a backpack near a taco truck, or sewing a button back onto their sleeve with alarming confidence, or offering you a bandaid from a zippered pouch with cartoon bananas on it — maybe say hi. We’re the walkers. The people who carry too much. The ones who notice. The ones with stories in their pockets and toast-shaped rocks in their side zippers. And maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll start your own weird walking bag. When you do, I hope it surprises you in all the best ways.
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