The Things We Carry.
Three Pairs of Shoes
Vincent van Gogh
1886
Have you ever lost something that, to most, would seem insignificant—but for whatever reason, its loss hit you harder than a hailstorm on a tin roof? Something so mundane that your strong sense of loss felt silly? Maybe a lucky coin, a keychain, or a favorite shirt that mysteriously vanished into the abyss of a laundry cycle, never to be seen again?
Well, this Saturday, while at work, the unthinkable happened. I lost my hat.
It had been a surprisingly warm day in Malmö. So, like I had done many times before, I hung it from the strap of my backpack. Sadly, after lunch with my co-workers, I made a terrible discovery—it was gone, nowhere to be seen. Just like that, it vanished.
I instantly panicked. This wasn’t just mild frustration or annoyance. No, this was full-blown panic. As I frantically retraced my steps and anxiety dug itself deeper and deeper into me, my confused colleague looked at me and said “It’s just a hat”.
Now, you might ask—why was I so concerned over a hat? Was it expensive? A gift from a late relative? A cherished family heirloom? Nope. It was just a budget-friendly ushanka bought from a Primark in Guildford, England. A mass-produced, inexpensive article of clothing with no real monetary value.
But here’s the thing—this hat was there with me through thick and thin. It accompanied me for over a decade and across continents. It annoyed my college girlfriend, who despised ushankas. It was there when Neo-Nazis—swastikas, salutes, and all—hurled bricks at us in Dover. It marched with me through the streets of London in defense of the NHS. It toured with my band and me through Scotland. It had met the cold, hard pavement with me when a Chevy Camaro, whose driver decided cyclists weren’t worth yielding for, crashed into us in Austin, Texas. And it kept me warm through six cold, dark, and depressing Swedish winters throughout my studies. Through all of it, this hat was there.
By the time I had lost my hat, it was no longer just a mass-produced, interchangeable piece of fast fashion from an Irish retailer with deplorable labor practices. It had developed its own unique character and presence. To me, it was one of a kind.
Such is the way of many of the things we carry. Despite their origins, a simple item may grow to hold great personal meaning—not merely as a passive object onto which we project significance, but as something that, through its interactions with us, develops a presence of its own. Walter Benjamin argued that mass production erodes an object’s aura—its uniqueness and historical weight. And for the most part, he was right—yet what is lost in production can be reclaimed through lived experience.
The broken stitching, the scuffs, the frayed edges—these marks are not just reminders of where we have been, but traces of the object’s own history, shaped through its entanglement with human lives. In this sense, the object does not simply reflect meaning; it accrues it, becoming something more than a mere tool or possession. Its subjectivity is not intrinsic, but emergent—formed through the layered imprints of memory, time, and use. The object, in being carried, worn, and weathered, takes on its own kind of presence, no longer just a thing, but a thing with a past.
This metamorphosis can turn a soulless commodity into a deeply meaningful treasure. To most, it may seem like nothing more than a rag. But to those who have carried it through years and across borders, it holds a history that cannot be replicated, and even once those individuals are gone that history remains, hidden, waiting to be discovered.
Furthermore, objects don’t just gain significance over time—they can become extensions of ourselves, shaping our identity in profound ways.
The phenomenologist Maurice Merleau-Ponty argued that through habitual use, objects become a part of our very being. Glasses, canes, and perhaps the most striking example—prosthetics—are not just external tools but integrated parts of their users.
They shape how we perceive the world and even how we understand ourselves—and in doing so, they become a part of us. Yet, when those items are lost—or when their users are long gone—a part of them remains. The object becomes a vessel, carrying echoes of its own history, shaped by those who once used it. Not only do these objects extend us, but in turn, we extend into them. The things we carry do not merely hold our history—they become part of it, preserving traces of who we were, even after we are gone.
Similarly, Jean-Paul Sartre suggested that we imbue objects with emotional and existential meaning. These objects, in turn, define us; they anchor our sense of self in the world. Losing them isn’t just about misplacing a physical thing—it’s a loss of memory, experience, and a piece of our self-conception.
Lost objects, no matter how mass-produced, are never just misplaced things. They are fragments of lives and experiences, silent monuments to moments of joy and despair, and remnants of people we will never know. So the next time you pass a solitary glove on the pavement or a hat abandoned on a bench, remember—what seems like nothing more than discarded fabric may, in truth, hold a world of untold stories.