In boarding school, my Longchamp was full of essentials. Pencils for Brit Lit and trigonometry. Pens and highlighters for history. A shawl for the drafty classrooms. A gargantuan Smart Water bottle to get me through the day.
And, most importantly, semi-sweet chocolate chips.
Even when I had a corporate job as an editor, I was so cluttered upstairs that I couldn’t appreciate the value of a well-worn, well-packed bag. My brain was bereft of intention, anticipation, and preparation.
I was surviving by the minute, much less living by the day.
In rehab, it looked a little bit… different.
Your starter bag was clear plastic. Stadium-regulation. The kind required when your purse exceeds 6 x 4 inches—or whatever the limit is.
Inside: The Big Book, the Bible of Alcoholics Anonymous. Its vernacular sits solidly in the sentiments of the group’s founding in the 1930s through the feminine mystique era, and has been largely left as such. One could liken it to a Seventh-day Adventist sermon. A guide to surviving the apocalypse.
And that apocalypse is the day you relapse.
The Big Book is dense. Heavy. Serious.
It’s the type of book that bores holes through plastic.
Along with the assigned reading, we were gifted the Narcotics Anonymous book, a brochure for the facility and the six-week crash course on how to live without alcohol—grief counseling included. A college-ruled notebook. A lanyard with the “likeness” snapped of all of us on intake day. Not my best look.
A Tervis tumbler with our names on it, like a curated brand trip.
The clear bag became a customizable carry-on. An analog purse. A home away from home. A spiritual reference. With the feeling I was going to be brainwashed (instead of helped), I threw in a Bible study from home in case the teachings felt too “out of the box.”
After a couple of days, I noticed the other women rifling through their bags to produce crossword puzzles, doodles, yarn, and of course, candy.
I watched Kat pop a blue SweeTARTS into her mouth. Mine started watering. She noticed me staring in her peripheral vision.
I was desperate for it.
After one of those concentrated sugar pills, I made a mad dash to the merch store before lunch. Unfortunately we were limited to two candies per purchase, so I began stashing them like I was seven years old at summer camp and my counselor would bring me Reese’s from her day off.
Liver spot, teeth rot, girl boss.
As a group, we became so obsessive with candy that there was a SweeTARTS shortage in the small mountain town.
SweeTARTS gate.
Our influence—and Kat’s persistence—won us the case for emotional support seltzers. Since that fall of 2024, they’ve been selling San Pellegrino to the patients.
This place became a home away from home. We ordered essentials from Amazon to our updated home address: crochet needles, pens, stuffed animals.
By the end, each person had a bag full of contents all their own. Even though they all looked alike, you could tell which bag belonged to which lady.
I started drawing in colorful pastels as I never had before, showcasing a bright internal world during a dark time. SweeTARTS and Starburst satisfied the oral fixation, scattered throughout the bottom of the bag—something you’ll find in my bag today.
Notes, bracelets, letters from loved ones, rings, tokens, tea bags, and contraband books were constantly on my person. Sparkling water you might splurge on at a restaurant. A three-ring binder full of printed lecture slides that I got not once, but twice, due to Hurricane Helene. Feverishly taking notes and intellectualization of the material protected you from the hurt of the heart.
I picked up rocks by the river after runs on the trail—a path marked by the Twelve Steps. My counselor gifted me crystals for protection. As a bookend to the day, I would consult cards derived from The Four Agreements, nestled between the candy and colored pencils.
Was I impeccable with my word? Did I take anything personally? Did I do my best? Did I make assumptions?
Blooms from early fall dried up in the bottom of the bag. I rewired my brain by lugging that bag to touch grass and watch the geese by the water. Cinnamon tea bags accumulated in the corners—caffeine we swiped before the tea and coffee were removed from the cafeteria for the day.
Small and personal rebellions, the contents of which only we knew.
Even if the surface was see-through.
Just like the interior of your home, a bag is a valuable observation tool. It reveals the way someone ticks. The leather, suede, hardware, pockets. The scents, shades, mints. Receipts. Tickets. Empties. Time tellers.
What you carry says everything about whether you’re surviving or learning to live.
In boarding school, I carried chocolate chips.
In my corporate job, I carried clutter and chaos.
In rehab, I carried SweeTARTS, crystals, and offerings from the river.
And now? I carry proof that I made it through.
What about you?
And before you go, would you take a second to tap the heart? It helps more people find this work and supports our sober community.
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Mary Peeples is a writer, former editor, theatre kid, and Southerner who writes about the small edits that compound over a lifetime. From ending generational cycles to discovering genuine joy, she explores what it means to build a life after burning bridges, rising from those ashes, and embracing the creative doors that opened in sobriety. Find her newsletter at Little Edits Atelier.
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