I've been thinking a lot about what it means to connect with each other, and the ways in which we share our stories. Heartache divulged in the shadows of campfires, fears thrown into the wind of long road trips, dusty secrets laid to rest at the bottom of oceans we kayak.
We trade tales with each other, veterans of various battles but the same war. We absorb them into the fabric of our being until we are able to look into each other's eyes and say, "me too." We gain empathy, but it does not stop there because we get lost in a new connection and forget to let go.
An innocent purity gets tainted when we carry someone else's burden for longer than intended; we get tethered to stories that were never ours to begin with. It is one thing to recognize and identify with someone else's pain, it is a different beast entirely to shoulder it yourself. So we must make time for ourselves to comb through the narratives that no longer serve us, pruning the leaves of stories we cannot contain, and simply give up those we never should have taken on in the first place. It becomes a dance of understanding but we must learn that we can walk with people and not carry the weight of their world too.
It sounds heartless, but our bodies were not meant to be vessels of others' tragedies like we so frequently allow them to be. We may be engulfed by the flame of another, every single pain, but we must let it run its course and rise from the ashes to move on. It does us no good to burn while we hold hands for we will inevitably catch each other on fire in the process.