I just got back from an epic trip to Central Europe with my husband, including a Danube River Cruise from Budapest to Prague — and I packed a carry-on. That’s it.

I am a minimalist packer by conviction and also by stubbornness. I know what I need. I know what I’ll actually wear. And I have learned, through years of lugging bags over cobblestones, that bringing more doesn’t make the trip better.

I did cave — slightly — to a Facebook group of fellow cruisers who informed me I wasn’t planning to dress nicely enough for the evening meals. So I threw in a dressier blouse and a pair of flats. But when I got there, I wasn’t dressed any more casually than anyone else.

What made the dinners memorable had nothing to do with what anyone wore. It was the warmth, the questions, the interaction among people and staff from all over the world. The attire was beside the point.

The umbrella I packed? Thankfully, never needed it. But warmer layers would have been nice. It turns out I’m remarkably good at packing for the fears I can name and underpreparing for the ones I can’t.

And then the universe decided to make that point a little more emphatically.

On the way home, our flight from Germany to California was canceled, and I didn’t have access to my carry-on, which, honestly, was full of dirty clothes anyway. We had nothing but our backpacks. We washed out our undies by hand and dried them with the hotel hairdryer. And I faced the morning without a single hair or face product to my name.

Now, let me be honest: I like feeling dressed. I like feeling stylish. I like having something on my face and something in my hair — which, stripped of its usual products in the dry Central European air, had achieved a texture I can only describe as a gray curly straw. These things matter to me. They’re part of how I feel like myself.

And yet. I was still there. Still me. Still capable of navigating a canceled flight, a chaotic airport, and a very long travel day with some measure of grace. It was good for me to be the plainest, most basic version of me — underdressed, under-moisturized, and exhausted — and find out that was fine.

Humbling. But fine.

I keep thinking about what we decide we need before we feel ready. The right conditions, the right preparation, the right version of ourselves showing up first. And how often that list becomes the reason we wait — for the trip, for the conversation, for the thing we keep meaning to do.

What’s your packing strategy?

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If you want a peek at the trip itself, I shared photos and videos over on Instagram @valeriejcantella — including some of the remarkable stories from our local guides, and the resilience and perseverance I learned about across the five countries we traveled through.

P.S. A warm welcome to everyone who’s joined recently. If you found your way here and you’re considering telling your story or writing a memoir, I’d love to have you over on my other newsletter — Dear Kate: Notes for Women with a Story to Tell.

This May, I’m opening a workshop built entirely around the thoughts that come before the book. The questions that percolate in the mind of anyone who feels called to share a story, or who has been told by someone that they should write one.

Before You Write A Single Word

This is a thoughtful, intentional conversation about all of it. And if you’ve already started writing, you’re welcome here too.

Registration opens April 29. Add your name to the waiting list here. Space is limited.

This was originally posted on Substack.