THE WEIGHT OF WHAT WE NEVER LET OUT
I've been watching my mother.
Really watching her.
This woman who's lived a whole lot of life and, I suspect, tucked away plenty of shit that's never seen the light of day.
And there's something I can't not see...
Her arms. Crossed tightly across her chest.
In the car. At dinner. In her chair. In a group.
And I wonder...
What are you still protecting, Ma?
Maybe it's just comfortable. But to me, it looks like armor.
Her cognition is slowly declining, yet there she sits. Arms crossed. Still holding on.
To what? I may never know.
We've brushed up against things. And believe me, I know how to pry.
But I don't.
She's lived a whole life that belongs to HER. Not every chapter is mine to read, question or unravel. And I can honor that without pretending I don't see what I see.
Do I want her to soften? Unclench? Unload whatever she might be carrying?
Fuck yes.
But that's MY want. Not necessarily hers.
I can't free someone from something they may not even believe they're imprisoned by.
What I CAN do is pay attention to what she's teaching me.
What am I still holding?
What truths have I swallowed?
And what the fuck is all that holding costing me?
These miraculous bodies weren't meant to be storage units for everything we've been too afraid, ashamed or conditioned to let out.
All that dead weight taking up precious real estate in a vessel that just wants to THRIVE.
Some things are sacred. Some things are private.
But there's a difference between choosing to hold something close and being held hostage by it.
Maybe her crossed arms are simply crossed arms.
Maybe they're telling a story I'll never hear.
Either way, I'm listening.
Because I have zero interest in arriving at the end of my life still guarding shit that's ready to go.
One truth. One unclenching. One glorious fucking exhale at a time.
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