the grief beneath the carrying

Yesterday, I found myself thinking about grief. Not the kind of grief we usually speak about. Not the grief that comes from losing someone we love.

But a quieter grief.

The kind that can live beneath the surface for years without ever being named.

As I sat with it, I realized that some of the heaviest things I have carried in my life were not actually problems to solve.

They were griefs…for things I wished had been different.

Grief for people I love.

Grief for dreams that changed shape.

Grief for versions of life that never came to be.

Grief for situations that could not be fixed no matter how much thought, effort, prayer, or care I offered.

And sometimes, grief for ourselves.

For the seasons when we needed more…more care, more protection, more gentleness, and more understanding.

Not from a place of blame, but from a place of truth.

For a long time, I didn't recognize these experiences as grief.

I simply carried them…carried concern, carried responsibility, carried hope.

I carried the feeling that if I stayed close enough to the problem, perhaps something would change…perhaps I could help, perhaps I could make things better.

But lately, I've been wondering whether some of what we call exhaustion is actually ungrieved grief…

Not because we are incapable.

Not because we are doing something wrong.

But because there are things in life that cannot be solved through carrying alone. Sometimes they need to be mourned.

I think many women know this feeling.

We carry the wellbeing of our families…we carry hopes for the people we love.

We carry expectations, responsibilities, outcomes.

Sometimes we even carry lives that do not belong to us.

And after a while, it can become difficult to tell where our responsibility ends and where God's begins.

Perhaps this is why putting something down can feel surprisingly emotional.

Even when it is the right thing to do.

Even when we know we were never meant to carry it forever.

There can still be sadness…there can still be loss…there can still be grief.

Recently, I've been learning that releasing something is not always an act of strength.

Sometimes it is an act of trust…trusting that I do not need to hold everything together…

Trusting that every story is not mine to manage.

Trusting that God is caring for things long before I arrive and long after I let go.

Maybe this is what grief offers us when we allow it space.

Not an ending….not a solution, but a softening.

A loosening of our grip. A chance to be honest about what hurts.

And perhaps, eventually, a chance to return what we were never meant to carry alone.

— Madina

A gentle reflection for the week ahead:

Is there something you've been carrying that you no longer need permission to put down?