The Hidden Weight in My Handbag

How my bag became more than an accessory, and carried pieces of me I couldn’t show the world

I wasn’t sure how to start this because when I was first prescribed an anti-anxiety medication about a decade ago, I felt like a failure.

We had just moved to New York City. Our apartment had sweeping views and floor-to-ceiling windows on the 33rd floor, the kind of living space that should have felt inspiring. But I could barely leave it. There was a time when walking across the street to get Starbucks felt like climbing a mountain, and even then, I only made it halfway most days.

In the years that followed, I started to notice how casually people talked about SSRIs and anxiety medication, as if it were completely normal. “Oh, I take Lexapro.” “I am on Prozac.” It was said with ease, like we were all in this together.

But I still felt completely alone.

My anxiety brought its anxiety and its ancestors anxiety along for the ride

When my anxiety was at its worst, it was not just a nervous flutter. It was debilitating. It was panic attack after panic attack. It was lying awake at 3 a.m., heart racing, imagining every possible catastrophe, shaking uncontrollably. It was trying to act fine on the outside while falling apart inside. I couldn’t eat. I felt on the verge of passing out multiple times a day.

This was me in my NYC apartment. I would need a heating pad to help calm my body and stop my nerves from causing me to shake.

A few months after our “new life” began, this picture-perfect life in the city, young and married with our own business, I broke. We drove back to Florida because I was too terrified to get on a plane. I told myself it was fine, that I preferred the road trip. But really, I was running from the fear.

Eventually, I sat in my therapist’s office with Vlad beside me. He spoke first. He told the doctor how bad it had gotten, how I could barely eat, how I shook constantly, how I had stopped leaving our apartment. The therapist, with the kindest eyes, told me I had not failed. He said it was time to talk to a psychiatrist about medication.

Still, all I heard in my head was, “You failed. You should have been stronger. You should have been able to handle it. You are weak.”

That voice in my head was so cruel that even now, a decade later, it can still bring me to tears.

Even though I have done so much work to love myself where I am (through therapy, meditation, and reframing), it is still hard sometimes.

I have built a life I am proud of. I work with brands I adore, travel to incredible places, and have the flexibility and stability I once dreamed of. And my family is my everything; my children, my husband, my parents, my brothers and sister, they are my world! But that old version of me still shows up sometimes, whispering that I am screwing it all up.

For anyone wondering, my medications are Prozac and Xanax. Big side note, I take them exactly as prescribed by my doctor.

Prozac changed my life. That tiny pill I once feared gave me back my freedom, the freedom to live, to laugh, to actually believe it when I said, “Whatever comes my way today, I can handle it.”

This was my first flight after two years of not flying, a short 30-minute flight from Fort Lauderdale to Orlando.

Xanax, for me, is situational, primarily for flying or those moments when anxiety spikes out of nowhere. I carry a small bottle of it with me every single day. If I am carrying a tiny bag, I will slip one pill into a little case and tuck it inside. Just knowing it is there calms me almost as much as taking it.

My bag became a kind of security blanket. It was where I hid the physical proof of my anxiety, the pills, the tissues, the deep breath reminders, all tucked neatly behind a designer logo. I thought I was just carrying my essentials, but really, I was carrying myself.

That is the thing about bags. For me, they have never just been accessories. They hold far more than stuff. They hold stories, memories, safety nets, and comfort. They carry the pieces of us we cannot always show.

If you have ever felt this kind of anxiety, I want you to know you are not alone.

From the outside, my life might look glossy and perfect, but behind the photos and polished words, I am just a person doing my best. Bags are my passion, my work, and yes, my armor. They bring me joy, but they also bring me peace.

At the end of the day, my bag does not just carry my things. It carries the reminder that I am safe. And that feeling is priceless.