Raspberry Iced M

The Good. The Bad. The Raspy.

  • Regulated Raspberry

    In connection with a previous post about being too emotional, please allow this post to serve as clarity.

    Being “emotionally healthy” does not mean “feeling less.”

    I’m not someone who can detach, or calm down, or just “be” unbothered.

    I have to work alongside how I feel, and I teeter the line – all too often – between fighting harder and losing the fight completely.

    Being regulated does not mean that I hurt less.

    Jesus wasn’t numb on the cross. He was in pain – physical, emotional, spiritual. He was rejected, and still prayed, “Father, forgive them, they don’t know what they’re doing.” He didn’t deny the suffering. But He didn’t allow his pain to turn into retaliation.

    In Acts 16, Paul and Silas were beaten and thrown into prison. Not inconvenienced. Not misunderstood. Actually beaten. And by midnight, they’re singing. They shifted their focus from hurt to praise.

    Hannah was deeply wounded – bullied because she couldn’t conceive. But instead of suppressing the pain, or even fighting back, she brought her struggle somewhere safe. “In her deep anguish Hannah prayed to the Lord, weeping bitterly.” (1 Samuel 1:10)

    Stephen was stoned (Acts 7) and prayed for those who were hurting him while they were hurting him.

    Elijah was tired. “I’ve had enough, Lord…Take my life,” (1 Kings 19:4) he prayed. Overwhelmed, fearful, and depleted, he finds sanctuary in the wilderness, where God meets him…and restores him.

    Emotional regulation is about redirecting your feelings, not letting your hurt turn into destruction. Being regulated, for me, doesn’t mean that the hurt doesn’t exist, or that I bury it. It doesn’t mean I don’t get angry. It doesn’t mean I pretend that I don’t struggle.

    It is not the absence of emotion. It’s the presence of restraint.

    So my goal now is not to feel less. It’s to respond better.
    To feel the hurt without letting it become harm.
    To acknowledge the emotion without letting it take control.

    You can be hurting and still be anchored.
    You can feel deeply and still choose wisely.

    And maybe that’s where real strength lies. It is not the absence of pain that makes us strong. It’s the ability to remain grounded in the middle of pain.

  • Raspberry Season

    I’ve been thinking a lot about Job today. It’s funny because people around me like to say things like, “I’m in my Job season.” You know – when Murphy’s law kicks in and everything bad that could happen does happen and you’re laying in your bed at night wondering “Why me?!?”

    I think what some people forget about the story of Job is that Job didn’t do anything wrong. It’s one thing to be tested when you’re an innocent bystander in the circumstances of your life. And all over the world, good people are being tested.

    I can’t say that for myself. I have made so many mistakes and I’ve done so many things wrong, and I can’t (and don’t) blame a single person except for myself for the aftermath, consequences, or dissolved relationships that have come as a result of those wrongs.

    So I don’t know if I’ve ever been able to say, “I’m in my Job season.” I know that right at this moment I feel incredibly blessed and I definitely don’t “deserve” it.

    But here’s the thing – none of us “deserve” it. We all *deserve* death. Forgiveness, grace, mercy – those are all things available for the taking – even though we don’t deserve them.

    I hope you’re not wallowing in regret or punishing yourself for your mistakes, because neither of those things will help you or anybody else. I hope you’re not doubting every decision you will ever make again just because you’ve made some bad ones, or impulsive ones, or selfish ones one second before right now. I hope that you don’t cling to your mistakes just because you spent a long time making them. And I hope you don’t allow someone else’s perception of you, or your mistakes, to shape your identity (this is something I really struggle with, and that is not my wish for anyone).

    If you really are “in your Job season,” or if you’re just reaping what you’ve sown, I hope you’re thinking a lot less about what you deserve, and a lot more about asking for your freebies.

  • Perceived Raspberry

    I’m one of those people who can’t just make a mistake once and learn from it. I like to make the same choice 4 or 5 times just to make sure it’s a mistake.

    And because of that, I’ve been defined by a pattern of those mistakes.

    It takes three murders to earn someone the title of “Serial Killer.”

    So by that standard, I’m a “Serial” lot of things.

    And one of the hardest parts of changing isn’t the work itself.

    It’s what comes after. It’s realizing that there are people who tally up my repeated mistakes and allow them to equal my character. And since I’ve failed at making changes many times before – because I put a band-aid on the core issues instead of actually digging deeper – there are people who still see me the same way they always have (and probably always will).

    The old labels. The old patterns. The old version of me.

    And that used to bother me a lot, because (1) it’s been hard to accept that those repeated mistakes are the cause of so many dissolved relationships; (2) I would instinctively compare my progress with those judgments, and it tore me up.

    But other people don’t experience my growth in real time. They experience the version of me that they once knew. The Raspberry they interacted with. The Raspberry that affected them. And that version is real. To them. So when someone sees me through that lens, they’re right.

    It’s just not current.

    There’s a part of me that wants to lash out. “But I’m not that person anymore.”

    But the most genuine growth doesn’t ask for an audience, and even when it gets one, not everyone is ready or willing to believe it.

    So I don’t argue anymore. I no longer try to convince people to update their perceptions of me. I don’t overexplain my past, hoping to change opinions.

    If someone needs to see change, they’ll see it through consistency – not through explanation.

    My focus has been on living differently. Quietly. Consistently. Without a need for immediate recognition.

    I tell the truth. I make better decisions. I stay where I used to run.

    Not because anyone else is watching me. But because I am.

    People are allowed to remember me however they experienced me. They’re allowed to hold onto the version of me that caused hurt. They’re allowed to be cautious, distant, or even closed off completely.

    I do have to accept/respect their experiences. But I don’t have to sit there just because they choose to. I don’t have to agree with their current views. And I don’t have to make decisions that coincide with what they think.

    Growth happens internally. Reputation happens externally. And those two things rarely move at the same speed. Sometimes your character has already changed, but reputation hasn’t caught up yet. And honestly, sometimes it never fully will.

    There’s a quiet strength that comes with realizing that I don’t need everyone to see me correctly in order to live correctly.

    It does hurt. Sure. I can see when someone still interacts with me based on whatever version of me they’ve conjured up in their minds – a version that no longer exists. I notice avoidance. I observe hypocrisy on a mass scale.

    But those moments pass. I’m no longer dependent on changes in the perceptions of others to determine my direction.

    I can’t control how I’m remembered. I can only control how I live today – and I have actively chosen honesty, responsibility, and self-awareness. I’m reinforcing something that matters more to me right now than any label – who I actually am.

  • Raspberry in Progress

    I didn’t get to heal in peace — but I am healing in responsibility.

    There was a time when I used my survival as an explanation.

    Not an excuse — at least not consciously — but an explanation.

    I was immature.
    I was overwhelmed.
    I was hurt.
    I was trying.

    And all of that was true.

    But true doesn’t erase impact.

    There came a point — quiet, unceremonious — when survival stopped being the headline and consequences took the microphone.

    Healing in chaos is one thing.

    Healing after you see what your chaos cost is another.

    No one claps for this part.

    There are no filtered photos of “working through the damage I caused.”
    No aesthetic journal spreads titled Repairing What I Broke.

    Just long afternoons with your own thoughts.
    Just the weight of knowing some apologies arrive years too late.
    Just the understanding that growth does not guarantee restored relationships.

    Healing in responsibility feels different.

    It is slower.
    Less dramatic.
    Less self-focused.

    You cannot center only your own pain anymore.
    You have to make room for the pain you were part of creating.

    That’s sobering.

    It means sitting with shame without letting it turn into self-pity.
    It means listening without demanding forgiveness.
    It means resisting the urge to say, “But I was struggling,” when what needs to be said is, “You didn’t deserve that.”

    There are days I want to defend the overwhelmed version of me.

    She was drowning.
    She was unprepared.
    She was carrying things she didn’t know how to name.

    But there are also days I have to look at her gently and say:

    You still hurt people.

    Both can be true.

    Healing in responsibility means not collapsing under that truth.

    It means standing upright in it.

    It means choosing different reactions when it would be easier to repeat old patterns.
    It means noticing the instinct to run, to numb, to justify — and staying instead.

    It means becoming stable not because someone is watching, but because someone once was.

    There is grief here too.

    Grief that I can’t rewind time.
    Grief that some of my growth happens in rooms I no longer have access to.
    Grief that accountability doesn’t guarantee reconciliation.

    But there is something steady growing underneath the grief.

    Integrity.

    Not flashy.
    Not loud.
    Just consistent.

    I can’t heal in isolation, but I can heal in alignment.

    I can become the kind of woman who does not look away from her mistakes.

    The kind of mother who says, “I was wrong,” without attaching a footnote.

    The kind of adult who understands that remorse is not the finish line — change is.

    Healing in peace would have been easier.

    Healing in responsibility is heavier.

    But it is also cleaner.

    It doesn’t rely on someone else handing me relief.
    It builds relief from the inside out.

    I don’t know which relationships will mend.
    I don’t know which photographs will ever feel uncomplicated again.

    But I do know this:

    The woman I am becoming is steadier than the one who was scrambling to survive.

    And maybe that is what accountability gives us.

    Not a reset.

    But a foundation.

    And this time — I am building it on purpose.

  • Reactive Raspberry

    If you asked me to describe myself, one of the words I’d probably use is “emotional.”

    Not emotional in an explosive way, but in a way that makes me sensitive. Sensitive to change. To tone. To “vibes.” Passionate might also be a good way to describe it.

    But as the Lord has been doing work in me, I’m realizing now that a lot of the things about which I can become emotional aren’t thoughtful. They’re just immediate.

    If something happened, I’d feel it intensely. And I’d respond just as quickly. It felt natural in the moment, but it didn’t always lead me to somewhere safe, or to a mental space by which I could rest.

    So learning to become less reactive hasn’t really been about simultaneously become “less emotional.” I may have to learn to live with deep feelings, and that’s okay. But it’s really been more about creating space between feeling and doing.

    Prayer really works. I’d encourage you to try it if you aren’t praying regularly.

    Outside of that, I’ve implemented some practical steps that have helped me take a breath between the feeling and the action.

    1. I delay my response. I don’t respond immediately to texts, calls, emails, or comments. I read/listen, and then I pause. This has prevented so many arguments.
    2. I name what I’m actually feeling. While in my “pause,” I evaluate my feelings. Am I upset? Embarrassed? Do I feel rejected? Slighted? Offended? Getting specific has helped me understand the feeling itself instead of allowing said feeling to control me.
    3. I identify the trigger. My reactions don’t come out of nowhere. They’re usually tied to something deeper. So I started noticing patterns. And that awareness has helped me catch my reactions earlier.
    4. I do not trust the impulse. Impulsive decisions – the ones I make – are usually the worst of all available possibilities. The urge I have to defend, explain, correct, or withdraw is worth naming, but not necessarily worth acting on. I do not have to obey my emotions, and I know I’m a little late to that Learning Party, but hey, better late than never.
    5. I give myself an “out.” If someone is pestering me for a response, I literally will say, “Let me think about that,” or, “I’ll get back to you,” or, “I need a minute.” If my feelings aren’t on my watch, they sure as heck aren’t on anyone else’s. Creating space is not avoidance. It’s wisdom.
    6. I lower the volume of the moment. When something feels intense, my brain interprets the situation as emergent. But feelings lie. The question, “Will this matter in a week?” helps me bring the emotional intensity down a notch or two.
    7. I have become comfortable with discomfort. A lot of my reactivity has come from wanting immediate relief, either by wanting to end the tension or fix the feeling (or sometimes even to prove a point). But discomfort is just part of life, and learning to be uncomfortable without acting on it is a skill. And it really has changed everything for me.
    8. I’m patient with myself. I still don’t do all of this perfectly. So when I have weak moments – ones where I pop off without thinking, I reflect afterwards. And then I apologize and reconcile my head feelings with my heart feelings – usually on paper – so that I can track my progress as these situations come up.

    I thought for a long time that becoming less reactive was impossible for me, because I was just incapable of “feeling less.” But as I’m growing, I’m learning that it’s more about not letting those feelings control me. And over the last 8 months or so, that space between feeling and action has become something pretty powerful – it’s become choice.

  • Raspberry Diagnoses

    My therapist says diagnoses don’t matter.

    She says it calmly. Clinically. Like someone who has watched enough people wear labels like armor or shackles.

    “Diagnoses don’t matter.”

    I nod.

    But I still Google them in the parking lot.

    I still compare symptoms on various lists on the internet. Still screenshot phrases like they might hand me a mirror that finally makes sense. Still whisper, “That’s me. That’s me. That’s me.“

    Because if there is a name for the way I spiral – for the intensity, the restless wanting, the shame that comes in waves – then maybe there is a manual. A treatment plan. A prognosis. A reason.

    And reasons feel cleaner than flaws.

    Labels promise structure. They promise explanation without confession. They say, “You are not bad. You’re wired.“

    And sometimes that’s true. Sometimes biology deserves the microphone. Sometimes chemistry deserves compassion.

    But I don’t think that’s what my therapist means.

    She means that a diagnosis might explain our storms, but it doesn’t excuse who we choose to be inside them.

    A diagnosis might describe the terrain, but we still decide how we walk through it.

    I think she means that we could all spend years trying to define ourselves down to a code in a handbook – or – I could spend that same energy asking harder questions.

    Am I regulated? Am I honest? Am I accountable? Am I trying?

    Those questions don’t fit into categories. They live in the gray.

    There is a quiet temptation to let diagnoses become identity. To say, “I’m like this because of X,” or “I react this way because of Y,” or even, “My relationships struggle because of Z.”

    And parts of that are probably real.

    But if I cling too tightly, the label becomes protective.

    The label keeps me from asking, “Okay. And now what?“

    My therapist says diagnoses don’t matter.

    I am not a case study. I am not a cluster of symptoms. I am not a paragraph in a med student’s thesis on mental illness.

    Change does not hinge on terminology. It hinges on humility. Patterns. Whether I am filling to confront those patterns without theatrics.

    Some days I still want the label. I want something tangible to justify wiring, as opposed to a moral failure.

    And maybe some of it is wiring.

    But at the end of the day, peace doesn’t come from the name.

    It comes from integrity. From showing up differently than I used to. From catching myself in the pause before I react. From choosing not to weaponize my pain.

    Maybe diagnoses don’t matter because growth does not wait for classification. And healing isn’t gated behind a code.

    Instead, it’s built in small moments, none of which require a title.

    That is terrifying. And freeing.

    Because if diagnoses don’t matter…

    Then who I am becoming does.

  • Raspberry Emergencies

    One of the main things I’ve learned about my brain is that it has absolutely no concept of proportion. Real problems? We’ll get to those eventually. But random, mildly uncomfortable situations? Those are apparently five-alarm emergencies that require immediate mental attention. In all specificity…

    1. That text message I sent to a friend three hours ago. The perfectly normal message, “Let’s do lunch before you start your new job!” I’ve read it like 17 times and now it looks suspicious. Was that too assuming? Was the punctuation too aggressive? Should I have used an emoji? At this point, I’ve created an entire psychological profile of the other person’s response time.
    2. The possibility that I offended someone in 2012. My brain loves to occasionally dig up a memory from years ago like it’s presenting evidence in a jury trial. Like, “Remember your meal before freshman year prom, when you only ordered a baked potato because you were too embarrassed to eat in front of your then boyfriend?” Yes, Brain. Thanks for that information at 11:47 p.m. on a week night. Super helpful.
    3. The tone someone used when they said “okay.” In my mind, there are 14 different versions of that word, and my brain thinks she can decode them all. And my fellow overthinkers can vouch. “Okay” is not the same as “Ok” or “ok” or “kk” or “k.”
    4. My bullet journal theme for April. Like I don’t have work to do or laundry to fold, my brain goes, “Hey, Meg, April is 2 weeks away, and you haven’t even thought about your bullet journal.” And it’s not just the passing thought that eats up my day. It’s the pressure.
    5. To that end, the one thing on my to-do list I haven’t done yet. I could complete 9 tasks (and I have). But that 10th? The one I haven’t finished? That’s the one my brain will obsess over like the rest of the world is waiting on it. Today it’s doing my nails, like somehow a Victoria’s Secret model will bust through my front door, look directly at my hands, and think, “Oh that just won’t do.” And all of that while I’m sitting here in yoga pants and a two-sizes-too-large-tshirt.
    6. My life trajectory. And it’s never at a convenient time. It’s always, like, 2 a.m., and I’m fluffing my bedroom pillows, when my brain decides it’s time to conduct a full existential review. Are we doing enough with our life? Are we where we should be? Do we need a completely new career path? And none of these questions can be answered at 2 a.m. But that doesn’t stop the metaphorical screwdriver from prodding.
    7. That awkward social interaction from earlier. Two weeks ago, during our small group at church, I thought it would be an amazing idea to divulge some fun facts about serial killers, specifically asking no-so-rhetorically, “I wonder what seasoning Jeffrey Dahmer used…” Lasted about 7 seconds, and I even got some laughs. Nobody in my small group has thought about it since, but I’ve thought about it every day for two weeks straight, like a slow motion replay of someone tripping down porch steps.
    8. Whether or not I’m “self-improving” enough. My brain regularly panics and tells me that I should be reading more books, exercising more, journaling more, and thereby growing into a better version of myself every 15 minutes from now until I die. It’s admirable, but also, can I just sit numbly on the couch while Big Bang plays in the background for an hour?
    9. The time I waved back at someone I thought was waving at me, but it turned out she was waving at the person in the check out line behind me. My soul dies a little more every time I think about it. And now I don’t wave at anyone. Like…nope. Not getting me this time.
    10. Whether or not I’m overthinking too much. Ironically, one of the biggest emergencies created by my brain, every day, is the possibility that I might be overthinking. When I then analyze extensively…thus proving the point.

    It’s like my brain doesn’t think I have enough actual problems, so it tries to spot potential in every decision I make. The discipline it takes to redirect my cerebellum so that I don’t have to open a full investigation…

    I’m exhausted indefinitely.

  • Raspbe-Google

    I need someone – anyone – to volunteer to delete my browser history in the event of my untimely death. If someone reviewed my Google searches right now, he/she would think that I’m either (1) writing a strange novel; or (2) not allowed unsupervised access to the internet.

    Either way, these are some things I Googled this week so that you don’t have to.

    You’re welcome.

    1. Do penguins have knees? Answer – yes. Apparently penguins have knees. They’re just hidden inside their bodies, which really feels like cheating to be honest. That means every penguin I’ve ever seen waddling around has a whole pair of knees, and not bending their legs when walking is just…choosing chaos.
    2. How much sleep does the average adult need? Answer – 7 to 9 hours. Fascinating, since my brain all-too-often wakes me up at 3 a.m. to replay conversations from 2007. So…I’m not really sure how this is supposed to work.
    3. Why does my brain remember embarrassing things from 15 years ago? Answer – Because your memory prioritizes emotionally intense moments. Oh. So the time I walked into a [very clean] glass door will live with me forever. Excellent.
    4. Can you actually “overthink” something? Answer – yes. And that just seems unfair because overthinking is also the only hobby I’ve truly mastered.
    5. How many decisions does the average person make per day? Answer – about 35,000. Ironic, since I am not emotionally capable of deciding what to have for dinner, like, ever.
    6. Do dogs understand apologies? Answer – they don’t understand the words, but they respond to tone and body language. So when I apologize to my sweet Ozzy after accidentally stepping on his paw and promise him a better life moving forward, he’s mostly just hearing the word “treat.”
    7. What illness contains symptoms of headache in each temple, loss of appetite, mild stomach cramping, and a runny nose? Answer – you’re dying. Seek medical attention immediately.
    8. Is it normal to talk to yourself? Answer – yes. Apparently it helps with problem-solving and focus. And that’s good news, because I’ve been conducting full staff meetings for years.
    9. Why does time go by faster as we age? Answer – because familiar routines make time feel compressed. So in order to slow time down, I have to do new things? Ick. My preferred activity is sitting in my house. So this presents somewhat of a problem.
    10. Is it normal to Google random questions all the time? Answer – yes. Curiosity and random questioning are normal cognitive behavior, which is a relief, because at this point, Google and I are basically co-workers.

    If nothing else, the internet has taught me something really important: Humans are deeply curious creatures. And sometimes that curiosity leads to groundbreaking discoveries. Other times I just need to know at 4:30 a.m. if penguins have knees. I’m grateful that Google is available to answer all of my questions, even if the answer is, “Yes. And maybe you should get some sleep.”

  • Wrong Raspberry

    One of the strange (but comical) things about growing into myself has been realizing how many things I used to believe – with absolute confidence – that turned out to be completely wrong.

    Not a little bit wrong. Not only technically incorrect. Just wildly, enthusiastically erroneous. See below.

    1. I used to think that if I explained myself clearly enough, my point would be well taken. If I could just provide enough context, enough examples, enough emotional PowerPoint slides, people would go, “Oh! That makes sense now!” As it turns out, people don’t change their opinions just because I can deliver a compelling TED Talk. As dead set as I used to be in my own views, I should’ve understood this. I didn’t.
    2. I thought closure came from getting the last word. Old Me believed that a polished final argument would close a case. But life isn’t a courtroom drama. It doesn’t come with mic drops or closed files. Now it’s just me, learning the reality that closure actually comes from something a lot less satisfying – silence.
    3. I assumed that being emotionally intense made me “deep.” I thought that feeling everything at full volume meant I was profound. But really it just made me exhausted. And occasionally dramatic. My strength for the last few months has been brushing things off with the following internal dialogue: “That has more to do with them than me.”
    4. I viewed all exciting things as good ideas. The not-so-reliable decision-making process of (1) Feel something intensely; (2) Immediately act on it; and (3) Deal with consequences later – well, it’s been more costly than beneficial. I’m not mad at myself for making those decisions anymore, but I have learned from them. Sometimes that sense of excitement was just adrenaline wearing a disguise. Excitement isn’t always wisdom.
    5. I perceived that other people were “the problem” in my life. This one took an embarrassingly long time to figure out. When the same problems kept appearing in different places – jobs, friendships, relationships – it definitely wasn’t the universe conspiring against me. The common denominator was me.
    6. I trusted that people who really loved me could/would stomach my chaos. Unconditional tolerance. Like, “Her choices are questionable, but she’s interesting!” As it turns out, most people just want stability. Weird, right?
    7. The motive for self reinvention was the disappearance of my past. New house. New job. New dog. New clothes. New anti-depressant (cough). Surely that would solve everything…except there was one small logistical issue. I came with me.
    8. Stability sounded boring, and there was a time when routine felt like stagnation and complacency. The dullness of predictability wasn’t my vibe. But now that my life is calmer, the shocker is that peace is extremely underrated. Nowadays, if “boring” is the worst way someone can describe me, it’s a win.
    9. I figured that apologies fixed everything. In fairness, apologies fix A LOT for me. So I assumed other people felt the same way. I thought that if I said “I’m sorry” sincerely enough, relationships would reset. I know now that’s not the case. Apologies are important, but trust isn’t rebuilt with words.
    10. I surmised that one day I would snap my fingers and magically become a fully formed adult. And then 38 years went by and I found myself thinking, “What in the world am I doing?!” The moment I wake up and have my life together hasn’t happened yet, and at this point, I think it’s a myth. Perfect judgment, complete emotional regulation, flawless decision-making…regrettably, it’s all impossible. The best I can hope for is baby steps of effort and lots of learning based on the mistakes I have already made and the ones I’ll make in the future, and in the meantime, occasionally Googling things I should probably already know.

    If there is one thing I have learned it’s that growth is basically the process of realizing that Past Me was wrong about pretty much everything. Past Me wasn’t stupid, but Past Me didn’t have the experience that Current Me does. And if everything goes well, Future Me will probably look back at this list and laugh, too.

    That’s both humbling and strangely comforting.

  • Raspberry on the Rocks

    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.