Pup gear first: What I pack for travel and why

I’ve been doing a lot of travel this last year. Over 100 nights spent in a hotel room, numerous plane rides, different places, and a TON of new friends. But surprisingly there is a lot of anxiety that comes with me when I travel. It comes from being a solo traveler, being in new and unfamiliar places, and not knowing the people or the area. But despite being the only human traveler, there is one travel companion that has come with me on each and every trip: Ruff.

When I travel, the first things that go into my bag aren’t clothes, chargers, or toiletries. It’s my pup gear. I don’t bring it because I plan on pupping out the entire trip. (Although that would be wild at the corporate offices I am at.) Rather packing my pup gear first means I am taking myself with me and giving myself permission to have fun on the trip. It’s a reminder for me that even though I may be working or exploring a new city, I have my pup self there with me to be curious, playful, and take some risks that help me to grow. Travel has a way of stripping people down. New cities, unfamiliar beds, different rhythms. Even when it’s exciting, it can be dysregulating. Schedules change. Time zones blur. The routines that keep us grounded at home disappear the moment the suitcase opens. For me, knowing Ruff is in the bag with me, gives me that mental anchor I need to be able to calm my nervous system and remain functional. ##Packing as a Ritual Packing my gear first isn’t about priority—it’s about intention. Before I decide what version of myself the world needs—work mode, tourist mode, social mode—I remind myself who I am underneath all of that. Touching my gear. Folding it carefully. Making sure everything is there. It’s a quiet ritual that says: You don’t have to earn your right to exist on this trip. That ritual matters more than people realize, and it’s what helped me to find chosen family all over the globe this last year. We often treat travel like a performance—what we’ll see, who we’ll meet, how we’ll present. Pup gear interrupts that. It centers me in sensation instead of expectation. It reminds me that I’m allowed to be playful, curious, soft, or feral—wherever I land. This was especially important in giving me permission in London to explore and find my people. Knowing at the end of a day full of corporate meetings, I could grab my hood, head up into Soho and enjoy an evening in a bar was so rewarding. I found myself saying hi to new people, interacting with those whom I may not have otherwise approached, and ultimately it’s how I met my Alpha. ##Gear isn’t a Costume, it’s permission For a long time, I thought pup gear was something you put on after you arrived—after the hotel check-in, after the social anxiety settled, after you felt safe enough. Now I understand that packing it first is how I create safety in advance.My gear isn’t about looking like a pup.It’s about feeling like myself and giving me that familiarity my nervous system needs to process new experiences. When I open my bag in a new city and see my hood and tail, something in my nervous system exhales. Even if I never wear it publicly. Even if it stays folded the entire trip. Its presence is enough.It says: You are allowed to take up space as you are. You don’t need permission. Travel already has a way of making us question our identity. Who am I here, what version of myself is welcome, how visible do I want to be? By packing my pup gear, I have the answer to those questions. It doesn’t always mean I’m going out, or playing, but rather It means I refuse to leave the most regulated, joyful version of myself behind just because I crossed a border. Sometimes the gear comes out late at night in a hotel room, after a long day. Sometimes it never leaves the bag. Both are valid. What matters is that I chose to bring it. I chose to honor that part of myself instead of treating it like an accessory I could live without.

##Carrying Ruff With Me

When I look back on this last year—over a hundred nights in hotel rooms, countless flights, cities that blur together—I don’t remember the check-ins or the boarding passes as much as I remember the moments where I chose to stay open.

Montreal, where I let myself explore the Village with curiosity instead of fear, discovering a sense of sexual freedom that felt playful rather than pressured. Pup events where I walked in not knowing anyone and walked out having found pieces of a chosen pack. London, where after long corporate days and unfamiliar streets, I followed that familiar ritual—gear in hand, hood on—and allowed myself to be seen. That choice led me to connection, to community, and ultimately to meeting my Alpha.

None of those moments happened because I was brave. They happened because I was regulated. Because I had something familiar with me that reminded my nervous system I was safe enough to explore.

Packing my pup gear first didn’t just make space in my bag—it made space in me. Space to take risks. Space to trust people. Space to show up as Ruff, even when I was far from home and technically alone.

I may travel as a solo human, but I’ve learned I never really travel alone. Ruff comes with me—into new cities, into new friendships, into versions of myself I hadn’t met yet. And wherever I go next, that’s still the first thing I’ll make room for.