I’m not strong. Most days, my upper body strength comes from carrying the occasional bag of topsoil or all the grocery bags in one trip, not from any kind of real weight training. Almost twenty years ago now, I learned exactly how much weight I could carry, and how far I could push it.
Like most new homes, when we moved in, the backyard was a blank (well, weed-filled) slate. Years earlier, the neighbor behind us had scraped dirt from our lot onto theirs, leaving us with a two-foot dirt “wall” along the property line. Now that they had neighbors, they wanted a fence between us, but the dirt wall wasn’t stable enough to support it. It also didn’t make for great landscaping.
At the time, we didn’t have money to hire someone. We’d just welcomed our first daughter, and we were already stretching every dollar we had. So I decided to build the retaining wall myself.
We contacted a local brick manufacturer to see if we could buy retaining wall bricks directly. Fortunately, the number we needed was just enough for a direct order. The bricks were monstrous — 80 pounds each, plus the capstones. When the brick company delivered them, they were afraid the weight of the pallets would crack the driveway, so they left them in the street. That meant about 150 feet between the stacks of bricks and where the wall needed to be built.
I loaded three bricks and a capstone into the wheelbarrow at a time — just about 275 pounds. Fifty-four trips in total. By the end, my arms and hands were so sore I couldn’t close my hand enough to hold a toothbrush. For days, every time I reached for something, my arms would burn and my fingers felt like they were trying to scoop through hardening molasses.
I didn’t move all those bricks because I wanted to. I never stopped to think about the muscle I might develop from the work. I did it because it needed to be done. Because I wanted my wife to see our yard as more than dirt and weeds, and for our little children to have somewhere they could play.
The same theme keeps showing up for me. Until about two months ago, I didn’t realize that a large part of me has always wanted to prove that I’m strong enough to do it all; strong enough to carry the load.
Along with that realization, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how obligation can get really heavy when you forget why you’re doing something, or when the thing you’re doing loses its meaning. Other times, though, you remember the real reason you started: not because you love moving bricks, or late-night phone calls for a client who isn’t paying you enough, or any of the other weighty, thankless tasks that come with building a life. But because of the people it’s for.
For a long time, I believed that I could only measure myself in one way: by how much I could carry. If I could handle more work, more stress, and more responsibility, it meant I was good. Worthy. And I kept telling myself the same story on repeat, without ever questioning it.
Like I said, I’m starting to wonder how true that is. Or if, maybe, there’s something to be said for carrying only the right things, not everything.
Honestly, I’m still trying to sort out the difference. My work is different now than it was back then, but the impulse is the same: to prove I can hold it all. To show I’m strong enough, even when my arms, hands, back, and heart tell me I’m not.
I haven’t thought about moving those bricks for a long time. The retaining wall has just been there — a fixture in our yard for almost twenty years. Now, though, we have a few rogue cherry trees threatening to tip over a portion of it, so I was reminded. Reminded that when I did that, I didn’t love the work. I hated it. But I loved what it made possible. It was a signal that my wife and I were building something we could be proud of. My wife loves working in the yard, but that was work she couldn’t have done. At the time — recovering from childbirth — helping wasn’t even an option for her.
Now, after all these years, I’ve had this funny realization that carrying something that heavy made me feel connected to what matters most. It’s also funny how easy it is to lose sight of that once the job’s done. I’ve spent years hauling loads that didn’t need to be mine, trying to prove something to people who probably weren’t even watching — and probably didn’t care.
Another lesson that’s started to take shape is this realization that obligation isn’t always a burden. Sometimes, it’s what’s required to build the path back to the people and places that matter most. Sometimes, the weight we carry breaks us. Sometimes, because we choose to carry it, it shapes us and makes us stronger.
P.S. If you’ve been finding these essays helpful, they’re part of a larger story. I’ve collected them — along with a few bonus pieces — into a book called You Don’t Have to Escape to Be Free: Thirty Days in the Canyon. It’s about the climb out of burnout, the quiet, persistent search for what really matters, and how we find freedom not by getting away, but by choosing to stay present and true to ourselves. You can buy a copy of my book here.
I didn’t want to build that wall. When I looked at those pallets of bricks after coming home from work, I had this kind of existential dread, knowing how hard the work would be. But I wanted what it meant more than I wanted to avoid the labor. I wanted a home that felt a little more like ours. That’s what kept me pushing that wheelbarrow back and forth until every last brick and capstone was moved.
That’s what I’m learning to hold onto today: the reminder that the work I choose to do — the work that requires something from me — isn’t about proving how much I can bear. It’s about showing up for the people I love, and for the life we’re building together.
I’m still learning to see the difference. I’m still not great at figuring out what’s worth carrying, and what can be set down or never picked up in the first place. I’m still trying to believe that my worth isn’t measured by the weight of the load.
But today, I remember that the work I choose for love — even the heaviest kind — doesn’t have to break me. It can be the very thing that brings me back to myself.
And that? That’s enough.
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