The Backpack
On the days you need a minute on the floor first.
Every day you carry the weight. You adjust the straps in the morning, you shift it when it gets heavy, you’ve gotten strong enough that most days you barely notice how much is in there.
But sometimes someone adds something to the pack without warning. A comment from a stranger. A report from the school. A moment where you see the gap between your child and the world — and suddenly the pack is crushing. Your knees buckle. You have to set it down on the floor, right where you are, and just breathe for a while before you can pick it up again.
You always pick it up. But sometimes you need a minute on the floor first.