“That Time I Went to the Grocery Store for Bread and Came Back with Existential Dread”

I had one mission: bread.

Just bread.

It was a sunny Wednesday. I was feeling slightly productive, mildly optimistic, and dangerously under-caffeinated. I told myself, “Just pop into the store, grab the bread, and get out. No detours. No nonsense.”

Ha. How cute of me.

I walked into the grocery store like I had a purpose. But if you’ve ever entered a supermarket “just for one thing,” you already know this is a lie we tell ourselves. A myth. A bedtime story whispered to our wallets.

The scent of roasted chicken hit me first. It whispered, You don’t need bread. You need a hot, seasoned bird and a sense of meaning.

I walked past it, strong. Focused.

Then came the fruit section. Berries were on sale. The strawberries looked like they were posing for a skincare ad. I picked them up. I smelled them. I imagined myself slicing them into a bowl like I live in a cottage and journal by candlelight.

I was seduced by produce. It happens.

Next thing I knew, I was in the snack aisle. I don’t even know how I got there. I think I blacked out. Suddenly I was holding a bag of sweet chili chips and questioning everything I knew about self-control.

Then, I made the fatal error: I wandered into the self-care aisle.

The self-care aisle is where your emotional wounds go shopping.

I stared at bubble baths and face masks. I stood frozen in front of a candle named “Tranquil Forest Rainfall,” wondering if I was the kind of person who needed tranquil forest rainfall in my bathroom.

Spoiler: I bought the candle. And a loofah. And a lotion that promised “radiant, awakened skin.” (My skin has since ghosted me, but that’s another story.)

Finally, I remembered the bread. The whole reason I came. I rushed toward it, slightly ashamed and holding items I didn’t recognize emotionally or financially.

That’s when I stopped.

Right in the middle of Aisle 9. Between the rice cakes and the gluten-free confusion.

Because suddenly, under the bright white lights and the faint hum of elevator music, I was struck by something that hit harder than the scent of free samples:

“Who even am I anymore?”

There I was, in sweatpants, holding a single banana, three scented candles, chips I don’t even like, and a shampoo that smells like eucalyptus and regret. All I needed was bread. But somehow, this trip had turned into an emotional rollercoaster where I confronted my childhood, questioned capitalism, and re-evaluated my hair texture.

It was like the grocery store had become a metaphor for my entire life:

I had a goal.

I got distracted.

I picked up extra baggage.

I found comfort in unexpected places.

And somewhere in the middle, I forgot what I came for.

Is this adulthood?

Wandering around bright aisles, trying to make responsible choices while being tempted by the comforting smell of pre-cooked chickens and “buy one get one” regrets?

Eventually, I made it to the bread. I stood before the shelves—overwhelmed. White bread? Multigrain? Sourdough? Gluten-free? Ancient grain, which sounds like it should come with a scroll and a prophecy?

I stared at the loaves like they were ancient texts I was unworthy to decipher.

I grabbed one that looked confident.

At checkout, I looked at the cashier like we’d been through something together. We hadn’t. But it felt like we had.

She scanned my things silently. No judgment. Just tired kindness.

“That’ll be $49.78,” she said.

For bread.

And emotions.

I paid. I nodded solemnly. I took my bag of shame and soul-searching and left.

On the walk home, I thought about how ridiculous it all was. How something as simple as buying bread had turned into a 90-minute identity crisis. And how maybe—maybe—that’s kind of beautiful.

Because life isn’t always deep. But sometimes, even the shallow stuff reveals something.

Maybe we don’t always need to have it together. Maybe it’s okay to wander, to pick up things we didn’t plan for, to feel a little lost under fluorescent lights.

Maybe that’s part of the human experience:

Walking into the store for bread, and walking out with a deeper understanding of your soul, a new lotion, and a story to tell.

So here’s what I learned, standing there in the snack aisle with a candle and an identity crisis:

It's okay to get distracted.

It’s okay to not know exactly what you need.

It’s okay if your cart doesn’t match your original list.

Because life is never just about bread. It’s about what happens while you’re trying to find it.

So next time you find yourself lost in Aisle 9 of life, just breathe. Smell the strawberries. Buy the lotion. And don’t forget the bread.

Or do.