The Weight I Carried For You[edit]
I still remember the necklace. The silver chain, the tiny moonstone my grandmother gave me before she died. You took it from my nightstand the night my mom’s funeral was canceled. You said you’d “borrow” it to “help me feel better,” then vanished for three weeks. When you returned it, it was scratched, the stone cracked. You never said sorry. Just shrugged, “It’s just a thing.”
For years, I carried that anger like a stone in my pocket. I’d replay your face when you handed it back—cold, dismissive. I checked your social media obsessively, looking for a hint of regret I’d never get. I’d get angry at the smallest things, snapping at my sister when she tried to hug me. The cost? I missed my own wedding. I turned down a promotion because I was too busy stewing. I became a stranger to myself, all because you refused to say you were sorry.
Here’s what I’ve learned: The heaviest weights we carry aren’t the ones others place on our shoulders. They’re the ones we choose to hold onto, long after the person who dropped them has walked away. I learned this not in a lecture hall, but in the quiet rooms of hospice, where I sat with dying people holding onto griefs that weren’t theirs to carry.
---
The Necklace as a Mirror[edit]
That moonstone wasn’t just a trinket. It was a mirror. Every time I’d trace the crack with my thumb, I wasn’t seeing the stone—I was seeing you. The way you’d turned away when I asked about the funeral. The way you’d said “just a thing” like my grandmother’s love was disposable. For years, I’d let that reflection define my days.
In hospice, I sat with Edna, 82, who’d spent 40 years nursing her estranged son through addiction. She’d clutch a faded photo of him, whispering, “He never said he was sorry for leaving me at the hospital that night.” I’d sit with her, not offering solutions, just holding space. One Tuesday, she said, “I think I’ve been carrying his shame like it was my own.” That’s when I realized: Edna wasn’t angry at her son. She was angry at herself for letting his pain become her burden.
I’d never thought of my own anger that way. I’d been so focused on your silence, I’d forgotten to ask: Why did I let your silence become my entire world? The necklace wasn’t broken because you dropped it. It was broken because I’d refused to let it go.
---
When the Poison Became My Compass[edit]
I didn’t just carry the anger—I lived it. I’d get furious when my sister asked about my mom’s canceled funeral. “Why do you keep bringing that up?” I’d snap, not realizing I was pushing her away because I couldn’t bear to feel the rawness of my grief. I’d cancel plans with friends, saying I was “too busy,” when really I was too busy replaying your face. I’d even stop at the grocery store, stare at the moonstone jewelry display, and feel my throat tighten. That’s how I knew I was still holding it.
This is the trap we all fall into: mistaking our pain for their fault. We think if they’d just say they’re sorry, the weight disappears. But the weight was never theirs to carry. It was ours to release.
I remember a man named Thomas, dying of lung cancer. He’d been estranged from his daughter for 15 years. Every visit, he’d ask, “Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?” I’d sit with him, not answering. One day, he said, “I’ve been waiting for her to say she’s sorry for leaving me. But I think I’ve been the one holding the poison all along.” He finally understood: his daughter’s silence wasn’t the problem. His need for her apology was.
---
The Tuesday That Changed Everything[edit]
The turning point wasn’t dramatic. It was a Tuesday. I was sitting on my porch, watching the sunset paint the sky gold, when I realized: I’d been holding the poison for you. Not to punish you—because you’d already moved on—but to keep myself from feeling the rawness of being hurt. I’d let your silence become the loudest sound in my life.
I’d been so focused on your lack of apology, I’d forgotten to ask: What would it feel like to stop waiting? I’d been using your silence as an excuse to avoid my own pain. The anger wasn’t about you—it was about me refusing to feel the hurt.
So I did it. I didn’t say it to you. I didn’t even think about you. I just stood up, walked to the kitchen, and threw the necklace into the trash. Not because I’d forgiven you—because I’d finally forgiven myself for letting you own my peace.
---
What Forgiveness Really Looks Like[edit]
Forgiveness wasn’t a warm hug. It was the sudden, shocking lightness when I stopped clutching the stone. It was the first time I looked at my hands without seeing the ghost of that necklace. It was realizing I’d been the one holding the poison all along. The anger didn’t vanish—it just stopped being my compass.
This is where most people get stuck. They think forgiveness means you have to say you’re sorry. But it doesn’t. It means you stop letting their silence define your life. It means saying: I don’t need your apology to be whole again.
In hospice, I learned this with a woman named Maria. She’d been abandoned by her husband 20 years ago. She’d spent decades saying, “I’ll forgive him when he comes back.” But he never did. One day, she said, “I realized I’ve been waiting for him to say he was sorry, but I’ve been the one who’s been hurting myself.” She stopped waiting. She started taking walks in the park. She even joined a book club. Forgiveness wasn’t about him. It was about her finally being able to breathe.
---
How to Stop Carrying What Was Never Yours[edit]
Here’s what I’ve learned from sitting with dying people and carrying my own weight for years:
1. Name the emotion, not the person.
Instead of “You’re so selfish,” try “I feel hurt.” This shifts the focus from them to you. When I started saying, “I feel angry,” instead of “You’re angry,” I could finally see the anger as mine to hold, not yours to fix.
2. Identify the physical weight.
Where do you feel the anger in your body? My jaw clenched. My shoulders hunched. When I noticed that, I’d say, “This is anger. It’s not you.” It’s a small step, but it creates space.
3. Ask: “Who is this hurting?”
I’d been hurting myself by holding onto that anger. When I asked this, I saw the truth: I was the one missing my wedding. I was the one turning down the promotion. The anger wasn’t protecting me—it was hurting me.
4. Release it in a ritual.
I didn’t say a word to you. I just threw the necklace away. For others, it might be writing a letter and burning it, or planting a seed in the garden. The act isn’t about them—it’s about you saying, “I’m done carrying this.”
---
Common Mistakes to Avoid[edit]
- Waiting for an apology. You’ll wait forever. I did. And in that waiting, I lost myself. - Confusing forgiveness with reconciliation. You don’t have to be friends with the person who hurt you. I never saw you again, and that’s okay. - Using anger as a shield. I used my anger to avoid feeling vulnerable. But anger is a shield—it keeps you from feeling the real pain. And that pain? It’s what makes us human. - Thinking it’s “too small” to let go. The necklace was “just a thing.” But the weight it carried wasn’t small. It was everything.
---
The Sacred in the Ordinary[edit]
Now, when I see a moonstone, I don’t flinch. I just breathe. I’ve learned to sit with the ordinary moments—the way the light hits my rescue dog’s fur in the morning, the sound of rain on the roof. These moments hold the same sacredness as the necklace did, but without the weight.
I’ve also learned to say it out loud: It’s okay to not be okay. I don’t need to fix my pain. I don’t need to make it disappear. I just need to sit with it. And when I do, I find the space to breathe again.
You never apologized. And that’s okay. I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing it for the woman who finally stopped carrying a weight she never had to bear.
---
— Kyle Smith, sitting with what's hard