The Barbie Doll Box I Couldn't Leave Behind

Choosing What Matters Most in a Crisis

This week with a new California fire a blaze I stood in my living room, the scent of smoke faintly filtering through the cracks in the windows.

The the news blaring in the background—another wildfire racing towards our community.

I glanced around at the things I had to pack, making mental calculations: passports, medications, photos, and… my old box of Barbie dolls and their tiny, mismatched outfits from the 1950s and 60s.

I hesitated, a bit embarrassed at the thought.

What would my neighbors think if they saw me scrambling out of the house, clutching a box of old dolls instead of something more “practical”?

But in that moment, I felt a pang of emotion that took me by surprise—a rush of memories and feelings from decades ago.

Those dolls weren’t just toys.

They were a lifeline.

Growing up, there weren’t many places I felt entirely safe or understood.

My childhood wasn’t filled with the gentle kind of love or security that I craved.

But when I sat cross-legged on the floor with my Barbies, I could create worlds where anything was possible, where I was in control, where kindness and love flowed freely.

I could be anyone, do anything, and shape a reality that was all mine, free from the constraints of the real world.

My favorite Barbie had a bald, smooth head and came with wigs.

She often wore a blonde wig that never stayed on straight. She also had pointy boobs and thighs you could drive a truck through.

I used to call her “Brave Barbie” because she could face anything—whether it was an imaginary lion in the jungle or a pretend schoolyard bully.

In my world, she was a leader, a comforter, a creator despite her different appearance.

She could conquer it all, and in some way, I think she taught me that I could, too.

And then there were her clothes, each one a story.

The sequined gown from my grandmother, who gave it to me during one of her rare visits.

The tiny blue swimsuit that I spent a whole summer trying to stitch together with clumsy fingers.

The wedding dress with the fraying hem, which somehow always found its way into every Barbie story line I created.

Each piece of fabric was stitched with memories, hope, and the kind of childlike dreams that are too precious to discard.

As I stood there, with the fires raging closer, I realized that this box wasn’t just a box—it was a testament to my past, to my creativity, and to the little girl who learned to find joy in her imagination, even when the world outside seemed chaotic and confusing.

It represented years of silent resilience, a tiny piece of myself that had managed to endure through all the ups and downs.

I grabbed the box, no longer questioning myself.

Those Barbies and their clothes carried a part of my story, a chapter that had made me who I am today.

At 68, I realized that some things are worth holding onto, not because they are practical or valuable in the traditional sense, but because they remind you of who you’ve been, how far you’ve come, and the parts of you that have managed to remain untarnished by time or circumstance.

It was about honoring the child who created worlds to survive, the woman who learned to carry on, and the truth that no matter how many years pass, the stories we hold close can still light our way home.

As I packed them carefully into the trunk of my car, I felt a sense of peace wash over me.

The dolls, pointy boobs and worn-out clothes, were a reminder that even in the face of a raging fire, there are parts of ourselves, of our stories, that are worth saving.

There is a power in choosing what we carry with us—and in that moment, I chose to carry the parts of me that made me feel whole.

QUESTION: What cherished piece of your past would you choose to carry with you in a moment of urgency, and what story does it tell about who you are today?"