The Blanket

Some objects carry more than just weight, they carry history. They hold memories, emotions, and the echoes of past versions of ourselves.

Tonight, I pulled out a blanket. A thick, high-quality throw that has been with me for fifteen years. But I didn’t buy it. I didn’t inherit it. I picked it out on my first day at a women’s shelter, when I had nothing but the weight of my own heartbreak.

At the time, I felt guilty for taking something nice like I didn’t deserve warmth or comfort. But that blanket stayed with me. Through the hardest moments. Through rebuilding my life. Through Shakespeare classes and sociology degrees and late-night revelations about Hamlet and the art of avoiding pain.

Fifteen years later, I’m at a New Ivy League school. And that blanket is still here. A reminder that I chose to be. That I was nev ...