Hey Splitsters – Split Sister Pam here, coming at you with a hot tip (literally). I live about 30 minutes down the mountain from Asheville, NC, and our local wildfires have been raging and making national news. Thankfully, I haven’t had to evacuate (yet), but I was advised to pack a go-bag. For the past almost 30 years, my soon-to-be ex, always handled disaster preparedness. So, for the first time, I found myself in full-on disaster prep mode, scrambling around late at night while the fire glowed ominously in the distance.

Fast forward a few days, thankfully the evacuation warning is lifted, crisis averted, but I got to thinking…what if you needed to suddenly pack a “go bag” for a dumpster fire of a relationship?

If you had to get out fast, what would be in your emergency breakup kit? Let’s compare notes—here’s what I packed, and let’s see how it stacks up to what you might need for a quick escape.

So, I’m unpacking my emergency bag expecting to find rugged survival gear from an episode of Naked and Afraid. Instead, what I find is: Mildly Inconvenienced and Moisturized… a small salon and a faint whiff of poor priorities. And that’s when I see it. Somewhere near the bottom, under the protein bar and anxiety… hair product. So much hair product. Like, a salon’s worth.

Dry shampoo (essential), in fact during my post-Hurricane Helene recovery, we had no power, no access to cash and I used my dry shampoo as currency. There is nothing a woman with 5-day-old unwashed hair wouldn’t trade (food, wine, husbands) for some squirts of dry shampoo. My go bag also had detangler(non-negotiable), two curl creams (don’t make me choose), a heat protectant (because nothing screams “ready for survival” like protecting your ends), and a mini bottle of shine serum I haven’t used since 2017 but apparently felt I’d deeply regret not having during a fire evacuation, and my special hot air brush (Thunder Brush) to style my way through the end times.

And nestled next to this shrine of vanity: my Multi-Purpose Lume Deodorant

Yes, Lume. The deodorant boldly advertised for use “anywhere you have odor.” Armpits? Sure. Underboob? Of course. Buttcrack? Apparently. So naturally, I packed it like it was a Swiss Army Knife of hygiene. Because if I’m in a crowded evacuation shelter with no A/C and close quarters, I’m not taking any chances. Lume isn’t just a deodorant in this scenario — it’s a peace offering to humanity. (Side note: I wasn’t 100% sure how much “other body part” usage is socially acceptable in public shelter restrooms, but we might have found out together.)Because clearly, I was preparing not just to survive, but to smell emotionally stable while doing it. Fires may rage, infrastructure may crumble, but I’d still be smelling like “Cucumber Mint” and denial.

You know the one. The big, curly, defiant little beast that somehow grows an inch overnight and always makes its grand debut at the worst possible moment. The one that seems to absorb light and cast its own shadow. The one so strong, it could probably lasso a passing truck.

The Heel Foot File Pumice Tool

Because apparently, in the middle of a fire evacuation, my number one concern was: “But what if my heels get crusty?” Yes, I packed a heel pumice stone. For emergencies. Like if a first responder glanced at my feet and thought, “Ma’am, we were going to let you on the rescue chopper, but… that callus.”

I also packed a tiny vial of Diva Glamorous Wash — that bougie fine laundry detergent because nothing says “prepared for disaster” like making sure your emergency socks smell luxuriously pretentious. Was I planning to do hand-wash laundry in an evacuation shelter bathroom sink? Or just sprinkle it around my car like some kind of anxious, detergent-based aromatherapy? We may never know.

The Pinecone Lime Body Butter (Mountain Trail Soap Co.)

Did I think I was going to emerge from the ash cloud with dry elbows? Absolutely not. I brought the jar, people — not a travel size. A full, chunky, luxurious jar of Pinecone Lime, as if I was prepping for a rustic Airbnb weekend. Maybe I thought if I moisturized aggressively enough, the fire would respect my boundaries.

The Electric Toothbrush and Toothpaste

Because even in chaos, oral hygiene is non-negotiable. I packed my full-size electric toothbrush like I was heading to a Marriott, not the floor of a high school gym. Forget a manual one — no, no — I needed the vibrating, USB-charged plaque annihilator. The kind of toothbrush that requires its own cord and sense of superiority. And of course, I forgot the charger. So at best, I had 72 hours of elite dental care followed by brushing with a sad, lifeless stick of entitlement.

My (Nearly Blank) Journal from Panama

Ah yes, the journal. The same one I lugged to Panama for 9 days and only wrote one paragraph in, right after takeoff when I was feeling poetic about clouds. But for this go-bag? I had high hopes. I pictured myself chronicling the human condition from a cot (or pallet? Or whatever we’re working with in a rural shelter?), sipping instant coffee, and writing raw, beautiful observations like, “Day 3: man in cargo shorts took the last granola bar. Am I the granola now?” Spoiler: I probably would’ve just doodled stick figures and written “hungry” ten times.

The Book: Flying Solo: Single Women in Midlife

Nothing screams “emergency escape kit” like emotional self-help literature. I guess I figured if the world was ending, I might as well lean in to the solitude and do some personal growth. What was I planning? Journaling in an evacuation tent with a headlamp, whispering affirmations like, “You are whole without a man… but also, there’s a bear outside”?

The Soft Pillow and Favorite Blanket

Now, to be fair, this was actually kind of practical — if you ignore the fact that my “soft pillow” is memory foam the size of a toddler and my “favorite blanket” is less “compact emergency item” and more “emotional support comforter.” But listen, if I’m sleeping in a car or on a cot next to strangers and their feral cats, I’m doing it swaddled in luxury.

Vitamin D and Holy Basil Supplements

Because nothing says “fleeing for my life” like making sure my adrenal system and bone density are thriving. I packed Holy Basil like I was prepping for a vibe shift, not a natural disaster. And Vitamin D? I don’t even take it consistently on normal days, but suddenly in evacuation mode, I was like, “What if I get insufficient sunlight while camping out in a parking garage?” Priorities: chaos outside, wellness within.

My Favorite Sweet Grace Scented Candle

Y’all. I brought a candle. A scented candle. Not a flashlight. Not a flare. A delicately fragranced Sweet Grace candle (Bridgewater Candle co.). Like I was going to create an ambiance while evacuating. Was I planning to host a spa night in my car? Light it during a power outage and do gratitude journaling while sipping herbal tea out of a Hydro Flask? I don’t even know what the plan was. I just knew if everything was going to burn down, it better smell lovely while doing it.

The Dead Flashlight (Now a Blunt Weapon?)

So I did, in fact, pack a flashlight. The batteries? Dead. Entirely dead. Did I pack extra batteries? No. But I did pack hope and delusion. On the upside, the thing is surprisingly hefty. So in a worst-case scenario, I could swing it like a medieval weapon or threaten someone with “a beam of emotional disappointment.”

Snore Strips …for the Other Evacuees of Course

Because apparently, in my twisted vision of community crisis, I imagined myself policing the snorers. Yes, I brought snore strips. Not for me. For “the others.” In case the shelter mattresses — or are they cots, or IKEA yoga mats— contribute to snoring. Imagine me, middle of the night, crawling cot to cot snore prevention vigilante whispering, “Sir… for the good of us all,” and slapping a nasal strip on their face …you’re welcome everyone!

My Favorite Comfy Lounging Wear

I didn’t just pack clothes. I packed vibes. My favorite comfy lounging wear — buttery-soft, slightly oversized, the set that says “I’m emotionally fragile, but cozy about it.” Because if I was going to sleep on a cot (or pallet, or basketball court floor), I needed to do it in an outfit that says, “I may have lost my home, but I still understand the importance of drape and breathability.” Honestly, I’d probably end up being that evacuee who everyone asks where I got my loungewear while we line up for lukewarm instant oatmeal.

My passport, random family photos, and other papers

In the chaos of evacuation prep, I grabbed my passport like I was about to be airlifted to France instead of possibly spending the night in a Walmart parking lot. Alongside it? A very random assortment of family photos — like, not even the good framed ones. We’re talking loose Walgreens prints from 2009, including one where half of us are blinking and my cousin is mid-chew. And then there was the envelope of “important documents,” which in theory should’ve contained IDs and insurance info, but I now see mostly included my expired car registration, my voter pamphlet, and what I believe was a Chili’s gift card (balance unknown). Apparently, I was preparing not for a fire, but for a vague identity crisis plus potential fajitas.

And for reasons I still cannot fully explain, I also brought my grandmother’s hand-carved wooden bird. It’s about 12 inches tall, weighs practically nothing, and serves zero survival function. But in that adrenaline-soaked moment, my brain went, “You’ll need emotional support. Take the emotional support bird.”

So to recap: no multitool. One flashlight, no batteries. Zero plan. If my world burned down, I’d be wandering the wasteland with no signal, probably eating freeze-dried lentils with a plastic spork — but my hair? Voluminous. My armpits? Odor-resistant for three full days, luxury detergent for my imaginary laundry day, and a spiritual wooden bird companion. My sense of priorities? Questionable at best. Moral of the story: next fire season if I have to pack a go bag, I might leave out one of the curl creams. But the bird stays. Obviously.