The weight we carry

The Weight We Carry Sana used to say to me, “Mom, I feel like there’s a weight pressed on my chest. I feel numb.” At the time, I heard her—I always did—but I don’t think I fully grasped the depth of what she was saying. Maybe I couldn’t. Maybe part of me didn’t want to. I offered comfort, I offered presence, but I didn’t realize that she was describing something far deeper than just a bad day or passing sadness. She was describing what it meant to live with invisible pain. And now, here I am, feeling the very weight she spoke of. A heaviness in the heart. A dull ache that doesn’t scream, but lingers. The days blend into each other with little to look forward to. Even moments of beauty seem covered in a veil of numbness. It feels like I’ve come full circle—not because I understand her now, but because I feel her now. I was talking to a friend recently—a therapist—about this lingering sense of gloom so many of us carry. Is it personal grief? Or is it something more? A kind of collective sorrow? The world does seem increasingly chaotic. There is conflict, injustice, noise. Our days are filled with headlines of despair, and even in our personal lives, we’re surrounded by stress, competition, and a never-ending chase for more. We’re constantly consumed—by money, by success, by validation. And yet, so many of us feel hollow inside. It’s as if we know, deep down, that something is off. That we’re not meant to live this way, racing through life without really feeling it. I often think about Sana in this context. Her sensitivity. Her exhaustion from the noise. Her longing for stillness. In my heart, I feel she has escaped this chaos, and that brings me a strange kind of comfort. I imagine her somewhere calm and kind, somewhere her soul isn’t burdened. It’s made me reflect on how transient this life feels—like a stopover rather than a destination. And in this stopover, we don’t ask enough of the big questions. We rarely pause to ask: What is truly meaningful? What is this all for? I don’t claim to have answers. But I do think we owe it to ourselves, and to those like Sana, to slow down and sit with these questions. To create more space for stillness. More room for compassion. And to remember that beneath our striving, we’re all just trying to carry our invisible weights—hoping someone, someday, will notice and say, “I see you. You’re not alone.” For Sana, who taught me how to feel the silence.