What I’ve put down is the backpack I was never meant to carry alone—stuffed with my story, my ancestoral curses, and the traumas I learned to shoulder so life could go on. I became skillful at moving with that weight; it looked like strength, but quietly, it was eroding my structure.
Now that I’ve set it down, I’m discovering that healing isn’t just about releasing what hurts. It’s about relearning how to walk without organizing my whole body and identity around heaviness. Without my backpack, my balance is unfamiliar. I wobble. I feel lighter and more exposed at the same time.
What deserves tenderness now is this in-between version of me: the one resisting the urge to pick the weight back up simply because burden feels more familiar than freedom. My work isn’t to be instantly graceful. It’s to stay with myself as I find my footing, trusting that the ground is solid even while my legs remember how to belong to a life finally sized for me.