Where the Light Waits

This year, the holidays snuck up on me in a way they never have before. I’ve been trying to find my way back to the lighter parts of who I am, but I’m deeply connected to the world around me, and that makes the process slower than I wish it were. There are so many people in my life fighting battles I can’t begin to comprehend, life-altering diagnoses, profound losses, quiet heartbreaks that don’t always have words.

I am deeply empathetic, with a heart attuned to all living things. I instinctively hold space for others, often at my own expense. I don’t just understand how people feel, I absorb it. I carry it, hoping that by taking some of the weight, I can leave them feeling even a little lighter. I’ve been this way my entire life. I truly believe I’m here to help others feel seen, heard, and less alone. What I’m still learning is how to do that without losing myself in the process.

This was the first year I struggled to find my way back to myself. As the holidays drew closer, the absence of those who should have been at my table grew louder. It was the first full year without them, and I entered the season already worn thin. From there, the weight kept building, not just from the people I love, but from strangers I passed on the street or stood beside in the grocery store, each carrying something unseen.

But slowly, quietly, I’m beginning to feel a glimmer again. It was never gone. It was simply waiting beneath the weight. Nature has been helping me find it. The stillness of trees, the cold air in my lungs, the steady reminder that life continues to breathe even in its quieter seasons. It’s not a full return yet, but it’s enough to remind me that light doesn’t disappear, it waits.

There is something else I am learning, too. Strength is not the absence of weakness. Strength is feeling weak and still being able to stand. It is continuing to show up. It is choosing compassion when it would be easier to shut down.

And maybe this season isn’t about bouncing back at all. Maybe it’s about moving forward more gently. About honoring what’s been lost without letting it harden me. About allowing myself to feel deeply while learning, slowly, how to set parts of that weight down. I am still here. Still feeling. Still choosing kindness, even when my hands shake. And for now, that is enough.

If you are reading this and feeling the same quiet heaviness, please know you are not alone. Who you are is already enough, even in the moments you feel fragile or unfinished. You don’t need to be stronger or brighter or more put together, you only need to give yourself the same grace, patience, and compassion you so freely offer to others. The light you’re looking for isn’t gone. It’s still within you, waiting for gentler days.

A Moment to Reflect

One thing I've noticed while reading your writing is that we often spend so much energy carrying others that we forget to notice when our own hearts are asking for rest.

Where have you been carrying more than you were ever meant to carry, and what might it look like to gently set down just a little of that weight?