The Suitcase

I have a suitcase. No matter where I go, what I do, or how fast I run, my suitcase always follows me. It doesn’t matter if I’m at work, at home, or on a ‘rare’ vacation. It’s there. With me. In plain sight. It’s a shape-shifting, state-of-the-art technology. So, chances are, you might have missed it. At first glance, if you did manage to notice, it might seem like an ordinary suitcase. But don’t let that fool you. It’s not your usual weekend backpack. Oh no, this one is custom-made, packed with all the things I’ve ever feared, doubted, or avoided. It’s heavy. It’s unnecessary.

At times, I’ve tried to laugh about it. Picture this, I am walking around with this invisible suitcase, dragging it across every street, every meeting, every awkward family gathering. It’s rather funny when you think about it. “What’s in the suitcase?” one might ask if they could see it. “Oh, just the usual,” I’d say. “A lifetime supply of self-doubt, a collection of unanswered questions, a sprinkling of regret, and a whole lot of overthinking.”

But here’s the thing about this suitcase—it’s not optional. It’s not something I can leave behind at the airport or forget at home. It’s a part of me. Some days, it’s small and manageable, almost like a handbag. Those are the good days. On those days, I can tuck it under my arm and pretend it’s not there. Other days, it’s monstrous, a hulking beast of a thing that drags behind me, scraping the ground, making every step a struggle. Those are the days when I feel like I’m wading through quicksand, barely moving, barely existing.

But I didn’t always see the suitcase for what it was. When I was younger, I didn’t even realize I was carrying it. I thought everyone had it too. There’s a story I always think about when I’m trying to explain the suitcase to someone. It was a random day, nothing special. I was walking down the street, lost in thought, dragging the suitcase behind me as always. A little boy ran past me, laughing, his tiny backpack bouncing on his shoulders. I couldn’t help but envy him. He didn’t have a suitcase. Or maybe he did, but it was small and light, something he could toss aside when he wanted to play.

I wondered when I had last felt that way. Free. Unburdened. Able to run without feeling the weight of everything I’d ever carried. That’s the thing about the suitcase. It’s not just heavy; it’s relentless. Even when I’m sitting still, it’s there, pressing against me, reminding me of its presence. When I’m trying to sleep, it’s propped up beside my bed, whispering its contents into my ear. “Don’t forget about this. Remember that time you failed? What about that thing you said to your friend? What if you’re not doing enough?” It’s like a bad roommate that I can’t evict.

I thought everyone must wake up with a sense of dread that they can’t quite place, right? Everyone must feel like they’re running a race they can’t win. It wasn’t until much later that I started to notice how different my suitcase was from everyone else’s. While others seemed to carry light backpacks or stylish briefcases, I had this ancient, battered monstrosity that I could never quite put down.

Being short, I thought I was too weak to carry, unlike others. So, over the years, I’ve tried different strategies to deal with it. I’ve tried ignoring it, pretending it wasn’t there. That doesn’t work. No matter how hard you try to ignore it, the suitcase always makes itself known. I’ve attempted to unpack it gradually, with the hope that reducing its weight would make it easier to carry. But unpacking is terrifying. Every time I open it, I’m confronted with things I’d rather not see: fears I’ve buried, memories I’ve avoided, truths I’m not ready to face. It’s overwhelming, and I’m never quite sure where to start.

Anxiety is the suitcase’s most persistent feature. It’s the weight you feel even before you pick it up, the anticipation of what might be inside. It whispers to me constantly, “Don’t open it. You won’t like what you find.” But it also questions, “What if there’s something important in there?” Some days, I wonder if the suitcase is protecting me in some twisted way. Maybe it’s holding all the things I’m not ready to deal with, keeping them contained so they don’t spill out and overwhelm me completely. But other days, it feels like a prison, locking me in with my own thoughts and fears, making it impossible to move forward. It’s a paradox. Both a burden and a shield. It’s something I hate, but also something I’m afraid to let go of.

I didn’t tell you the thing about the suitcase. Dragging this suitcase is exhausting. It slows me down and makes me second-guess every step, every decision. With the suitcase, there are the strong headwinds that push against me as I try to move forward. It’s relentless and unyielding, making every step feel like an impossible task. Together, the suitcase and the headwinds create a perfect storm of struggle. One weighs me down, the other pushes me back. Moving forward becomes a battle I’m never sure I’ll win.

Depression’s headwinds are cold and numbing. They drain me of energy, of joy, of the will to try. They whisper, too, but their voice is different from anxiety’s. Depression doesn’t ask “What if?”—it states “Why bother?” It tells me that the effort isn’t worth it, that the suitcase will always be there, that the fight against the wind is futile. I should just give up and end this. Sometimes, I believe it. Sometimes, I sit down right there in the middle of the storm, too tired to drag the suitcase another inch.

Then there’s ADHD, which complicates things even more. ADHD is like a faulty GPS that’s constantly rerouting me. One moment, I’m focused on the path ahead, determined to make progress despite the suitcase and the wind. The next, I’m veering off course, distracted by something shiny or interesting or urgent. An ultramarathon? A storytelling event? A photography gig? A YouTube video? Although I’m yet to receive a formal diagnosis, the alleged ADHD tells me, “Forget the suitcase for a while. Look over here! This is more important!” And for a moment, I’ll feel lighter, free. But the suitcase is always there, waiting for me when the distraction fades. And the headwinds never stop.

Living like this is a relentless cycle. The suitcase, the wind, and the faulty GPS—they all conspire to keep me stuck, or at least make every bit of progress feel painfully slow. And the hardest part is that it’s invisible to others. To the outside world, I might look fine. People see me moving, working, smiling, and laughing. They don’t see the weight I’m dragging, the wind I’m fighting, the constant rerouting in my head. They don’t hear the whispers or feel the exhaustion that seeps into my bones.

There are moments, though, when I catch a glimpse of what life might be like without the suitcase, without the headwinds. Moments when I’m surrounded by people who make me feel safe, or when I’m immersed in something I love, like telling stories or watching a movie that resonates deeply with me. In those moments, the suitcase feels lighter, the wind less fierce. I’m reminded that it’s possible to move forward, even if it’s hard.

But the suitcase isn’t just about the burdens. It’s also about the judgments, the expectations. Growing up, I was taught that stillness was laziness. That every moment should be productive. Sitting still was wrong, like I’m failing somehow. And so, I keep moving, dragging the suitcase with me, trying to prove my worth through action.

But I’ve started to realize that the suitcase isn’t just a part of me; it is me. Everything inside it, every fear, every doubt, every chaotic thought, is a piece of who I am. That realization is both liberating and terrifying. Because if the suitcase is me, then carrying it is inevitable. But it also means that maybe, just maybe, I have the power to change what’s inside. The headwinds aren’t something I can stop, either. And the GPS isn’t something I can fix. But I can learn to carry the suitcase differently, to brace myself against the wind, to navigate the distractions with more compassion for myself. I can learn to pause without judgment, to sit with the weight and the whispers and the wind without letting them define me.

It’s not easy. There are days when the suitcase feels impossibly heavy, when the wind knocks me off my feet, when the GPS leads me so far off course that I feel lost. But there are also days when I find moments of stillness, moments of clarity, moments of connection. And those moments remind me why I keep going, why I keep dragging the suitcase forward, one step at a time.

Maybe one day, the suitcase will feel lighter. Perhaps one day, I’ll discover a method to maneuver with the wind, rather than against it. Maybe one day, I’ll learn to trust the GPS, even when it leads me into unfamiliar territory. Until then, I’ll keep moving. Not because I have to, but because I choose to. Because even with the weight, the wind, and the distractions, there’s still a path worth following.

So if you see me walking down the street, dragging my invisible suitcase behind me, don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t try to take it away or tell me to put it down. Just walk with me for a while. Share the road.