A woman’s handbag is never just a handbag.
It is a small universe: a survival kit, a confession, a quiet record of everything she is expected to hold.

I didn’t realize how much of my life lived inside mine until the day I emptied it onto the table, looking for my power bank. What spilled out was not clutter. It was evidence. Of love, of fear, of preparedness, of exhaustion. Of womanhood in a world that demands we stay ready for anything.

There were painkillers – of course there were.
Every woman I know carries painkillers. For cramps, for migraines, for the sudden tension headache that blooms behind the eyes when a man explains your own idea back to you. For the moments when the day aches in places we can’t name.

Then there were pads; because preparedness is a duty we inherit early. Not just for ourselves, but for another woman who might whisper, “excuse, uko na ninio?” in a bathroom somewhere. We carry for the collective. We always have.

A pair of safety pins, because wardrobes malfunction at the worst possible moments and respectability politics never rest. A roll-on. Hand sanitizer. Tissue sachets, because you never know which matatu, toilet, office, or government building will decide to humble you today.

There was my power bank, and a USB cable I didn’t remember owning. A hair band, two lip balms, and a small tub of Shea Butter because our skin, like our hearts, must never be caught dry.

I found three pens; because women always carry pens. We are the ones who sign school diaries, jot down shopping lists, take minutes no one asked for, fill forms, track expenses, record the things everyone else forgets.

Receipts from supermarkets, pharmacies, petrol stations: the emotional archaeology of a week lived in haste.

And tucked inside a side pocket was a folded KSh 500 note, hidden for “just in case.” Every woman has that emergency money. An escape hatch disguised as currency. A small insurance policy against the uncertainty of men, employers, police, matatus. Fate.

But the heaviest things in my bag are not physical.
They are the unspoken things I carry without pockets.

The mental checklists.
The messages waiting for replies.
The reminders that no one else will remember unless I do.
The fear of walking alone at night.
The calculation of which route is safer, which street is better lit, which side of the matatu makes for a quicker exit.
The invisible labour of managing emotions; mine, and everyone else’s.
The tenderness I ration.
The strength I perform.
The exhaustion I hide.
The softness I protect because the world mistakes it for weakness.

Society expects women to walk through life like pack animals of Grace.
Carry the house. Carry the job. Carry the relationship. Carry the children.
Carry disappointment quietly.
Carry pain discreetly.
Carry success modestly.
Carry beauty effortlessly.
Carry safety precautions instinctively.
Carry the shame that does not belong to us.
Carry everyone else’s needs before our own.

And still look polished. Controlled. Unbothered.

A woman is a container; of stories, crises, appointments, family secrets, unhealed wounds, unpaid labour, unpaid invoices, and the deep desire to just rest, for once, without consequence.

Yet inside all that heaviness, there is always something soft.

A half-melted sweet meant for a child.
A photograph.
A motivational quote scribbled on a torn paper.
A receipt from a small joy; a pastry, a lip gloss, a moment.
A tiny dream folded into a notebook page.
A key to a home she built with grit and prayer.
A lipstick shade she wears only on the days she feels brave.

Women carry armour and tenderness in the same bag.
We carry fear and hope together.
We carry things for emergencies, but also for beauty.
For comfort.
For the version of ourselves we are slowly becoming.

Sometimes I wish I could put the heaviest things down.
Not the objects; the expectations.
The constant preparedness.
The instinct to fix, to soothe, to anticipate.

But maybe this is what makes us who we are.
Not the weight, but the meaning we give to what we carry.
The quiet, daily heroism invisible to the world.
The soft rituals of care disguised as habit.

So yes, my handbag is heavy.
Most women’s are.

But I’m convinced the real weight we carry is not in our bags at all.
It’s in the world that expects us to always be ready, always be strong, always be everything, without ever being asked what it costs.

And yet, somehow, we carry on.