You Were Never Meant to Carry It Alone

The day is ending, and the armor you wore for twelve hours finally feels heavy enough to break your shoulders. You have been the strong one—the steady hand, the calm voice, the one who holds the medical charts and the fear all at once.

But now the house is quiet, and there is no one left to perform for. You are allowed to put it down.

There was a man who carried a paralyzed friend to the light, digging through a roof when the door was blocked. He did not carry him alone; there were four of them, sharing the weight of the mat.

You were never meant to be the only pair of hands. The light does not ask you to be the pillar that holds up the sky.

It asks you to sit. To let the strength you borrowed for today return to its source.

You do not have to be strong for the morning to come. The light is already there, waiting to hold what you can no longer carry.