The Weight I Carry

Some days

I carry the weight of everything—

every mistake,

every goodbye,

every version of myself

I wish I could forget.

Not because I want to.

Because it follows me.

In quiet moments.

In songs I didn’t expect.

In the pause

between one thought

and the next.

I tell myself

to put it down.

As if grief

is something you can leave

on a table

and walk away from.

But some things

cling to your hands.

Some memories

learn your shape

so well

they fit inside you

like they were always meant

to live there.

And maybe

that’s what growing older is—

not learning how to forget,

but learning how to carry

what stays.

The regrets.

The losses.

The people

who became stories

instead of futures.

Still—

I keep moving.

Not because the weight

gets lighter.

But because somewhere along the way

I got stronger

than the things

trying to drag me down.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe survival

isn’t the absence of burden—

maybe it’s learning

how to walk forward

with it anyway.