What emotional, cultural, or spiritual “weight” was passed to you?
🕯️ The sound of my mother hitting the floor.
I was six or seven. My father was absent. My mother was working herself into exhaustion just to keep us fed and sheltered. One night, mid-conversation, she collapsed in front of me. I can still hear the thud.
I was just a kid, but my ancestors were with me. I remember running to the sink, filling a small cup, and splashing water on her face to bring her back.
Ever since that moment, I’ve felt it deep in my bones—if no one else would care for this woman, I would. That day made me protective in ways I still don’t have words for.
This is the weight I carry. Not as a burden—but as a vow.
I’m neurodivergent, and since childhood, I’ve struggled with interoception—my body’s ability to sense internal signals like when I need to use the bathroom. I used to have accidents often, and even now as an adult, it’s something I manage every day. I’ve had treatments, including Botox shots in my bladder. But the simplest thing I do? I carry backup.
It’s quiet protection. It says I know my body. I care for her. I carry her story without shame.
Find an object that’s been used and loved so long it’s showing wear.
🧳 Nothing’s lasted long enough to wear down.
It’s been over 30 years since I’ve felt secure in my home. I’ve moved more times than I can count—chasing jobs, running from rising rents, trying to survive. I used to call myself “nomadic” to make it sound romantic. But really, I was poor. I had unstable housing. And that instability shapes you.
I don’t have keepsakes with stories rubbed smooth by time. Not because I didn’t care. But because the world didn’t care enough to let me keep them.
This doesn’t say anything about my worth.
It says something about the system I’ve had to survive.
2. Inherited Weight
What emotional, cultural, or spiritual “weight” was passed to you?
🕯️ The sound of my mother hitting the floor.
I was six or seven. My father was absent. My mother was working herself into exhaustion just to keep us fed and sheltered. One night, mid-conversation, she collapsed in front of me. I can still hear the thud.
I was just a kid, but my ancestors were with me. I remember running to the sink, filling a small cup, and splashing water on her face to bring her back.
Ever since that moment, I’ve felt it deep in my bones—if no one else would care for this woman, I would. That day made me protective in ways I still don’t have words for.
This is the weight I carry. Not as a burden—but as a vow.
1. Bag Check
What’s one object you always carry with you?
🩲 An extra pair of underwear.
I’m neurodivergent, and since childhood, I’ve struggled with interoception—my body’s ability to sense internal signals like when I need to use the bathroom. I used to have accidents often, and even now as an adult, it’s something I manage every day. I’ve had treatments, including Botox shots in my bladder. But the simplest thing I do? I carry backup.
It’s quiet protection. It says I know my body. I care for her. I carry her story without shame.
3. Worn Down
Find an object that’s been used and loved so long it’s showing wear.
🧳 Nothing’s lasted long enough to wear down.
It’s been over 30 years since I’ve felt secure in my home. I’ve moved more times than I can count—chasing jobs, running from rising rents, trying to survive. I used to call myself “nomadic” to make it sound romantic. But really, I was poor. I had unstable housing. And that instability shapes you.
I don’t have keepsakes with stories rubbed smooth by time. Not because I didn’t care. But because the world didn’t care enough to let me keep them.
This doesn’t say anything about my worth.
It says something about the system I’ve had to survive.