What the Suitcase Knows

The suitcase has been open on the bed for three days. Not because I'm disorganized. Because I've been trying to pack for a week that hasn't happened yet. I want to tell you I'm excited—and I truly am. We are headed to Alaska—a bucket list trip. A bigger-than-life ship. Some of the people I love most. A week away from meetings and calendars and deadlines. A chance to laugh with friends, watch glaciers drift past, and stand on the deck beside Nick--hoping for a whale sighting. I've been looking forward to this for months.

And.. I haven't slept well in a week. Because before every vacation, I find myself trying to earn my rest.

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Here's what the days before my  trip actually look like. I'm not dreaming about the icebergs or the train. I'm busy building a fortress. Answering emails that could wait. Finishing projects no one expects me to finish. Writing handoff notes that no one has asked for. Telling myself that if I can just get far enough ahead, nothing and no one will need me while I'm gone.

Then I come home and do it in a different form. Visit the grands one more time. Laundry finished. Bills paid. Refrigerator cleaned out two days too early. Plants watered- probably over watered. Every loose end tied as tightly as I can manage.

And still—the world does not stop asking. It never has. I have never once left a week so finished that it stayed finished behind me.

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Then there's the suitcase itself.

Packing should take thirty minutes, not three days. Instead I stand over an open bag, negotiating with every possible version of next week. What if it's colder than they say? What if it rains? What if dinner is dressier than I planned? What if.

So in goes another sweatshirt. Another dress. Another layer. The extra medicine. The backup charger. The just in case.

I'm not packing clothes. I'm packing contingencies. Because somewhere along the way, I confused preparation with safety.

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Then I pack my cane.

It folds down to almost nothing. Small enough to disappear along the inside edge of the bag, under the sweater I probably won't wear.

I live with MS. Most weeks, I don't need that cane. But some weeks, I do. And— I have never once been able to tell you in advance which kind of week is coming. So the cane goes in the suitcase. Not dramatically. Just quietly, without ceremony. The way you'd leave a light on for someone. “I don't know who you'll be on Thursday. But if you need me—I've already thought of you”.

And standing there, I notice something. The extra sweatshirts. The backup charger. The medicine. The cane. They're all answering the same question. What if? Only one of them has my name on it.

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Maybe you've never packed a cane. But you've packed other things. The apology you rehearsed in the car. The extra hour you gave because no one else would. The worry you carried up the stairs at 2 a.m. so that everyone else could sleep. The version of yourself you keep folded small, in case someone needs the room. You've tried to think your way around uncertainty. You've tried to prepare yourself into peace.

I've done that too. I might even be doing it right now— staring into this suitcase.

If that's you—I wrote something for you. A short letter called "To the One Who Says Yes Before They Mean It." Not advice. More like someone pulling up a chair beside you. It's free, and it's waiting at YourStayWay.com.

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Here's what I'm slowly learning. The answer isn't to stop preparing. Preparation is good. It is wise. Preparation is love — with its’ sleeves rolled up. The cane doesn't prevent a hard week. It just means I won't be stranded in one. That isn't control. That's grace. And grace has a stopping point—the moment I've done what I can do. It's fear that keeps asking for more.

So this time, when the tape starts playing—what if, what if, what if—I'm practicing a different response.

I've done what I can do. The rest of the week gets to be the week.———————————————-

Because what I want it more than I want a perfect suitcase.I want to be on that deck at six in the morning with cold air on my face and coffee going lukewarm in my hands, watching the mist lift off the water—and be there. Not still at my desk in my head. Not running inventory on what I forgot. Not rehearsing the Monday morning I might come home to. Just there. Cold. Awake. Astonished. That's the whole prize. That's the entire reason we go anywhere outside our normal borders. And I have missed it before—standing in the most beautiful place I've ever been, mentally repacking the bag. Not this time.

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Speak Truth-- I'm not packing for a vacation. I'm trying to pack away my fear of what I can't predict.

Trust Yourself--I've already handled every hard day I've been given. Every one of them brought me here.

Anchor Here--Not once I arrive in Alaska. Not when every box is checked. Right here. Beside my open suitcase. Breathing. Choosing enough.

You're OK--Whether the cane stays folded in the closet, or walks beside me across a glacier overlook—I'm still okay.

So maybe today isn't really about the suitcase. Maybe it's a gentler question. What am I carrying because I need it—and what am I carrying because I'm afraid? I don't think we find that answer in the luggage. I think we find it the first morning we wake up somewhere beautiful and let ourselves be just-in it, before anything is settled or certain, before we've earned a single minute of it. Life was never waiting for me to be certain.It was waiting for me to show up.So I'm going to zip the suitcase. Something will go wrong—something often does. But I have survived every single one of those.

And then I'm going to step aboard anyway.

Hold your lantern. Carry your anchor.

Heather Dawn Robinson

Every Monday I send a Lantern Note—a gentle reminder to speak truth, trust yourself, anchor here, and remember that you're already okay.

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