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There is a heaviness we learn to carry like it bel

There is a heaviness we learn to carry
like it belongs to us—
like our bones were built for burden,
like our chest was meant to hold storms.

We get so used to the weight
we stop asking who put it there.

We call it love.
We call it patience.
We call it “I can handle this.”

But then something shifts—
not loudly,
not all at once—
just a quiet, undeniable noticing.

Who sat beside me…
and who watched?

Who reached out their hands
when I was drowning in it,
and who stood at the edge
throwing more water in
just to see if I’d sink?

Because let’s be honest—
there are people
who will witness your suffering
with empty eyes,
or worse—
with a kind of comfort
that it isn’t them.

They’ll shake more pain into your life
like it’s nothing,
like you’re nothing,
like your breaking point
is just another place to stand.

And that kind of person—
no matter how familiar,
no matter how loved,
no matter how long—
is not safe.

There is truth in that.
Sharp. Unforgiving. Necessary.

Because love doesn’t watch you unravel
and call it your fault.
Love doesn’t stay silent
when you’re clearly hurting.
Love doesn’t add weight
to someone already on their knees.

So now you stand there—
tired, yes—
but seeing.

Seeing who held you,
and who helped break you.

And maybe the heaviest thing of all is realizing
you don’t have to carry this anymore.

🤍

Art is subjective because its purpose was never to

Art is subjective because its purpose was never to be liked by everyone — it was meant to make you feel something. The pieces that stay with people are the ones that crack something open inside of them. Emotion isn’t weakness. In a world obsessed with numbness and detachment, feeling deeply is its own kind of bravery.

What do you think?

I have been so many women inside one lifetime. Th

I have been so many women
inside one lifetime.

The soft one.
The shattered one.
The one who stayed too long.
The one who finally left.
The one who buried her voice
just to survive.
And the one learning to share again.

Life keeps peeling me open —
layer by layer, grief by grief, truth by truth —
until I meet another version of myself
waiting underneath it all.

And somehow… all of her makes sense.

Because we are not the wounds.
We are what we built with our bare hands
after the wreckage.

Not the breaking —
the becoming.

✍🏻 Jess Little

it doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful… the

it doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful…
the magic lives in the in-between — the undone, the messy, the real. In laughter that wasn’t planned, in moments that don’t always match the picture. Beauty isn’t in perfection — it’s in presence, in feeling, in being here for it all. 💋

@soupismylovelanguage

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