A strange thing happened yesterday. A once-in-a-blue-moon, barely-any-impact, doesn’t-matter-but-somehow-does kind of thing.
After work and dinner, my partner and I went out for groceries. As usual, I reached for my pen and pocket notebook to write a list.
But then I paused. Something was missing.
My usual assortment of writing tools — the pens in my left shirt pocket — were gone. And not just those. My main pocket notebook — a stack of 3×5 index cards clipped together — wasn’t in my left pant pocket either.
It was such a rare occurrence that even my partner was surprised. Shocked.
And in that strange moment, in that micro second, the world felt… slightly off. The world doesn’t crash. The floor doesn’t fall away.
But you do feel it. That internal tilt. That tiny gravitational shift.
Not quite lost. Just adrift.
It’s the moment when something familiar doesn’t show up — and you realize how much you’d been leaning on it.
---
Somehow, this carefully curated collection of marked-up, battle-tested, and patinaed stationery anchored me — helped me adapt to whatever situation I found myself in. My “safety blanket,” perhaps. A subtle kind of armor.
Luckily, I have backups.
There’s always a pen in my hip pouch — the “emergency pen.” Then there’s my car. Stocked with extras: pens, sharpies, index cards, sticky notes.
I grabbed a bright pink 3×3 Post-it and an ancient old Bic ballpoint. Scribbled down what we needed. Slipped the note into my left jacket pocket — the place where my tools usually go.
Order: restored. For now. Kinda.
---
At that point, I thought about rebuilding my kit. I considered banding together a set of backup tools and materials — to re-equip myself with the EDC I was used to carrying. Get myself back to baseline.
But then something curious happened.
I chose not to.
I decided to go without them — for the rest of the night. Just to see how it felt. An intentional absence. A tiny trial. A test.
How necessary are these tools, really? What happens when we remove the things that quietly define us?
I carry them so often they’ve become part of my personality.
This strange evolution of how utility becomes habit. Habit becomes expectation. And expectation becomes identity.
I’ve somehow become a trusty toolbox. In rare moments, my partner can reach over without looking and grab a pen from my left jacket pocket — without saying a word. (Usually followed by laughter, after realizing what just happened.)
And still — I was fine. Of course I was fine. (Seriously! Hah)
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Nothing is wrong. But something is off.
Like when your favorite hoodie is in the wash. Or when your usual chair at the café is taken.
But it’s not the same.
It’s a quiet ache — not for comfort, but for familiarity.
A tiny longing for the version of you that felt just a bit more… together. A version of the world that felt slightly more predictable.
---
That moment — brief as it was — helped me see something more clearly. It offered a new perspective on the things we carry… and the things that quietly carry us.
The tools we choose. The people we lean on. The routines we protect.
These are the things that help us feel like ourselves. These are our anchors. The invisible architecture of stability. The things that helps us stay connected to who we are — and how we move through the world.
Trinkets. Talismans. Habits. Philosophies. Ideas. Inside jokes. Daily rituals. Colleagues. Friends. Idols. A wide array of possessions, practices, and people — each one giving us a little more stability. A little more grip. A sense of control. A way to make sense of things.
And I suppose a couple of my anchors just happen to be…
A pen and pieces of paper.