Some Days Are Emotionally Expensive

Carry-On

Last Saturday, Sanjuan and I had date night.

We went to see T.I.

I carried the cutest little black crossbody. It held exactly what it needed to hold: my favorite lippie, my phone, my driver's license, and a credit card.

If I'm being honest, it also had one tiny compartment for insecurity.

Are we too old to be here?

Should we really be splurging on THIS concert?

Do I look okay?

Nothing major.

Just enough self-doubt to remind me I'm human.

The funny thing is, just last week, I went to see Chris Brown and Usher by myself and never once questioned whether I belonged there. Somewhere between one concert and the next, I've packed a few extra thoughts I don't need.

The next day, he and I stopped at Target, and I bought a travel backpack. I was thinking Guatemala. Only 100 more days or so to go! I wanted something practical for the trip. Something to throw my passport, a journal, snacks, my headphones, a few colorful dresses for a cute Instagram picture or two, and enough insect repellent to survive the spiders I've already convinced myself I'll meet. I had a fight with a spotted lantern fly yesterday.

I smiled when I bought the backpack because it represented something exciting.

Adventure.

Celebration.

A birthday trip I'll be looking forward to for months. Then today happened.

Today reminded me how quickly an ordinary day can become emotionally expensive. We usually think about expensive in terms of money. But some days cost us something else.

They cost us peace.

They cost us energy.

They cost us sleep.

They cost us joy, and the mental space we had been saving for ourselves.

We often don't notice the cost until we're exhausted. As I sat in my car this afternoon eating McDonald's fries, I realized that backpack I bought wasn't for Guatemala. It was just another bag to fill.

Apparently...my bags are at capacity. These bags have been with me for years.

They are full.

Not with travel essentials.

With invisible things.

Responsibilities.

Worries.

Questions without answers.

Other people's expectations.

My own expectations.

The pressure to have it all figured out.

The instinct to volunteer before anyone even asks.

That last one, I have to unpack more, because that one stopped me. Not because I'm unusually generous. Not because I don't love the people in my life. But because somewhere along the way, I developed a reflex.

If something falls apart...

"I'll get it."

If something needs fixing...

"I'll handle it."

If someone is overwhelmed...

"I'll carry it."

No discussion. No pause. No question.

Just...

"I got it."

I don't know exactly when I became the person who automatically carries what everyone else puts down. Maybe it started with being the oldest daughter. Maybe it comes from being thought of as being dependable.

Maybe it comes from confusing love with responsibility. All I know is that I've gotten really good at carrying things no one ever asked me to pick up. It makes me wonder how many of us are walking around with mental backpacks so full that we've forgotten what it feels like to stand up straight.

The interesting thing about the phrase carry-on is that it means more than one thing. It's the stuff we intentionally pack. The things we choose to take with us. Every trip I take forces me to decide what deserves a place in my bag. Life should too. Right? It's also the message so many women, especially Black women, have heard our entire lives.

Carry on.

Keep going. You'll figure it out. Be strong. Hold it together.

And then there's emotional baggage.

The invisible carry-on we drag from one season of life into the next. The things we never meant to pack but somehow made it into our bag anyway.

Fear.

Guilt.

Responsibility.

People-pleasing.

Hyper-independence.

The belief that our value is measured by how much we can carry.

Then a voice spoke to me. Kind of like Jenifer Lewis with south twang. It sounded like my husband, cousins, and aunt who loved me enough to tell me the truth.

Honestly...

It sounded a little like me.

“Girl...put that shit up or put that shit down.”

Either carry it because it's yours or put it down because it isn't.

That little voice has been in my head all day long ever since.

Maybe that's what healing looks like. Not becoming stronger. Not learning how to carry more. Not pretending life doesn't get heavy. Maybe healing is learning to unpack.

To hold every thought...Every obligation... Every expectation...and ask one simple question:

Is this mine?

If the answer is yes...

Carry it with intention.

If the answer is no...

Leave it at the gate.

The airline has weight limits for luggage. Maybe it's time I gave myself one too. Not because I don't love people. Not because I don't care. But because protecting my peace isn't abandoning the people I love. It's refusing to abandon myself.

So when I board that plane to Guatemala in November, I hope my lightest bag isn't my backpack.

I hope it's my mind.

I'll pack my passport. My journal. My favorite lipstick. A few colorful dresses. Extra insect repellent. And enough room for joy.

I'm intentional about protecting my bank account. Now I'm learning to protect something even more valuable:

My emotional balance.

Because the most important carry-on I'll ever pack...

...isn't the one on my back.

It's the life I finally have room for.

🤎