Raspberry Iced M

There’s a rock in my pocket.

It isn’t special.

It’s not smooth enough to be called a keepsake…not sharp enough to be called dangerous. It’s just…a rock. Ordinary in every way except for the fact that I carry it with me.

I don’t remember when I picked it up, and if you ask me why I keep it, my answer wouldn’t satisfy you. It doesn’t serve a purpose. It doesn’t improve anything. It doesn’t even belong in a pocket meant for keys and chapstick and things that make life easier.

And yet it’s there.

Some days I forget about it entirely.

I move through my day without adjusting for its weight. I laugh easily. I walk with no consideration of balance. I reach into my pocket for something else and never notice the extra roundness resting against my palm.

On those days, the rock might as well not exist.

Other days, though, I remember.

Not because it hurts – technically – but because my fingers brush against it. I roll it absentmindedly between my thumb and forefinger, tracing its edges like it might soften if I give it enough attention.

And I hold it there – just for a second.

Not trying to get rid of it. Not even questioning why it’s still with me.

Just…acknowledging it.

On those days, I make small accommodations.

I shift it to the other side of my pocket. I walk a little differently. I carry on, but with awareness – a quiet understanding that something is there, even if it isn’t causing harm in that moment.

And then there are even more “other days.”

The days when the rock announces itself.

It knocks against my hip when I move too quickly. It rattles when I sit down. It crowds out the keys and chapstick and other practical things I need.

On these types of days, I can’t ignore it.

The weight feels disproportionate, somehow heavier than it should be for something so small. It throws off my rhythm. It slows me down. It makes normal, simple tasks feel complicated.

I reach into my pocket, close my hand around it, and think, “Why am I still carrying this?“

It would be easy enough to take it out, set it down on a table, leave it on a curb, or toss it somewhere it couldn’t follow me.

There’s nothing physically stopping me.

And yet – I don’t.

Because the rock is not just a rock.

It’s something I picked up along the way. Something that meant something once. Something tied to a moment, a mistake, a memory I haven’t fully sorted through.

It isn’t good or bad. It just…is.

And some days I wish I could walk without it. Other days I don’t notice it enough to care. But on days when it presses hard enough to leave a bruise, I wonder if I’ve mistaken “carrying” for “holding on” – if I’ve confused endurance with necessity.

The rock does not encompass the lesson. The rock does not decide how I move. It doesn’t get to dictate my direction or define my pace. It can make things heavier, and it can shift my balance if I allow it.

But it is still something I choose to carry.

And maybe one day, I’ll choose differently. Not in anger. Not in shame. Just in understanding.

Maybe someday, I’ll take it out of the home it has made in my pocket, feel its weight one last time, and set it down somewhere that doesn’t require me to adjust around it.

Not because the rock was bad.

Not because it didn’t matter.

But because I have hope that I will not always have to carry the things I am carrying now.

Until then, it stays. A quiet weight. A familiar shape. And a reminder that some things don’t have to be heavy forever…

…even if, for now, they still are.