© 2026 by STORYTELLUS
THE SWEET WEIGHT OF LIVING
I grew up in a small fishing village. Life looked quiet, almost gentle, but even as a child I could sense something heavier underneath. I saw injustice, violence, and a kind of indifference that people learn to live with. The first time I witnessed violence, I was three years old. A neighbor was beating his wife. I remember being afraid, but also unable to look away. It left me with questions I did not have the language for yet. Why would someone hurt another person? What makes that possible? How do you survive in a world where that can happen?
As I grew, those questions stayed. I began to see that everyone carries something unfinished inside them. A past that cannot be fully told, or maybe cannot be faced. The more I paid attention, the more I realized that what people do to others often has roots far behind them, in places they may not even understand themselves. At some point, I made a quiet decision. I wanted to become someone others could feel safe around. Not safe in a loud or obvious way, but in a way that allows them to put things down. To not have to defend themselves. To not perform, explain, or hold themselves together too tightly. I wanted to be a place where people could return to something more honest within themselves. But I also learned that this kind of presence cannot be forced. It requires a kind of honesty that is uncomfortable. It asks me to not hide behind identities or ideas of who I should be. To stop trying to become something else and instead remain with what is already here, even when it feels uncertain or incomplete. When I left home, I used to tell my mother that I met many kind people. She would smile and say the world was not that kind. I did not believe her then. Later, I began to understand what she meant. I was underpaid, deceived, and betrayed. There were moments when something in me felt like it was breaking or closing. Each time, I had to learn again how to stay open without becoming careless, how to protect myself without becoming hard.
I spend a lot of time observing my own mind. Where my thoughts come from. How certain beliefs stay rooted inside me without being questioned. I notice how easily the ego reacts when it feels hurt, how quickly it turns others into something to defend against. It is a quiet kind of grief to see this clearly, to realize how often fear shapes the way we see each other.
I am learning to pause in those moments. To not immediately follow the impulse to protect or withdraw. To allow space, even when it feels uncomfortable. To choose understanding, even when it is not natural. This has not been easy. It is slow, and sometimes I fail more than I succeed. I am also learning to be patient with what I do not understand yet. There are questions that do not open just because I push harder. Some things only unfold when time has softened them enough. I am trying to trust that. To not rush myself into answers that are not ready to be found. More than anything, I am learning to stay with myself. To not abandon myself when things are difficult. To speak to myself with some kindness, even when I feel disappointed in who I am. Because in the end, I am the one who lives with everything I have been through. The visible parts and the parts no one else sees.
There is a quiet effort in continuing. In choosing not to turn away from myself. In not reducing myself to my mistakes or my fears. I try not to judge myself too harshly. Not to shame myself into becoming better. Only to keep moving, slowly, with some honesty.
Over time, this has brought a different kind of freedom. Not the kind that comes from becoming something more, but from no longer forcing myself to be something I am not. From allowing myself to exist as I am, even when that feels uncertain.
I have come to appreciate the weight of living. The way grief and joy can exist so close to each other. The people who have passed through my life, the moments that stayed, even the smallest things that would be easy to overlook. A butterfly moving through the air. A flower growing where no one planted it. I do not feel certain about much. But I know that I want to remain here, with a kind of openness. To keep learning, to keep softening, to keep becoming in a way that does not force itself. And if there is anything I hope for others, it is simply this. That they do not give up on themselves. That they allow their lives to unfold, even through confusion, even through pain. Because none of us have done this before. And somehow, despite everything, we are still here, trying.
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