Some days carry a kind of weight you can’t put into words. Not heaviness exactly—but a concentration of energy that presses into your skin, your nervous system, your breath. A weight that accumulates layer by layer until suddenly you find yourself navigating terrain that feels steep, strange, and far too full.

Yesterday was one of those days.

There wasn’t one defining event. There were three convergences, layered like thunderclouds—each one significant, each one stirring the soul in its own way. Threads of grief, of home, of health and legacy. Threads that have lived in my bones for years but rarely pull this tightly at once. The kind of day that felt like holding a four-tonne truck overhead with no safe place to lower it.

And yet, I did not break.

Instead, I did what I have learned to do: I breathed. I let the rain come. I let the earth hold me. I felt weary, yet not weakened—a distinction I’ve come to cherish.

Then, unexpectedly, a message came.
Simple. Clear.
“I’m not coping.”

And something shifted.

Not in the way you’d expect. You might think that another call for support would add to the weight, tip the scale, break the camel’s back. But instead—it centered me. It cleared the noise. My body, my field, my heart suddenly had one clear instruction: Be present here.

And in that moment, I felt light.

Not because things were fixed. Not because the challenges disappeared. But because my presence had a direction. My love had a place to land. My energy, which had been scattered across timelines and possibilities, gathered itself and anchored into now.

It’s strange how a crisis we understand how to meet can bring a kind of unexpected peace. In a world of unresolved loops and invisible burdens, clarity—even when it’s painful—can be a balm. Purpose, I’ve learned, is a profound stabilizer.

I know this pattern. I’ve lived this edge before. It’s written in the deepest grooves of my nervous system—the call to show up when love is needed most. I’ve learned to meet it with open hands and a spiritual heart, even when the body trembles. And even though I no longer carry the same responsibilities I once did, the call to bear witness, to hold space, to respond with soul, remains sacred.

This is what I want to say, for anyone else carrying what feels like too much:

You are not fragile because you feel.
You are not weak because you pause.
You are not lost because you momentarily forgot your strength.

Sometimes, it’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back that reminds the camel it can kneel.
Sometimes, it’s the weight of everything that leads us to the only thing that matters.
Sometimes, presence in crisis becomes a holy portal back to Self.

So today, I honour the soul-weight.
Not as a burden, but as a sacred teacher.
I honour the way life reorients us when we’re willing to feel everything and still listen for the whisper.
And I honour the lightness that came—not from escaping it all, but from standing still inside it.

May you find your center today, however it arrives.
May you remember the breath is always waiting.
And may you never doubt the quiet, unwavering strength you carry inside.