There were six of us. All grown men, sweating and out of breath, struggling to carry a hospital bed from a truck through the front door of a house and down the hall. I was on the front corner, trying not to let the jagged metal edge slice any deeper into my fingers. It seemed impossible that something with the footprint of a twin bed could weigh so much. We made it all the way to the doorway of the destined bedroom before we realized we’d never be able to make the turn into the room.
We backed the bed down the hallway, breathless, awkwardly maneuvering the bed into the living room. I was ready to leave it there. We had done our part. It wasn’t going to fit. I wanted to call it.
“Let’s take out the bedroom window and bring it in that way,” someone suggested.
“Are you crazy?” I asked. “We can barely carry it. What makes you think we can lift it through a window without hurting ourselves, dropping it, or damaging the house? Or all three?”
But we did it anyway.
We removed the screen, popped out the panes, draped a rug over the frame — as if that would somehow protect the house if we lost control. We repositioned the bed outside and stood around it like it was an immovable monument.
That’s when her son-in-law arrived.
He competes in strongman competitions — one of those guys who can hoist 200-pound stones like most people carry a bag of groceries. The kind of strength that doesn’t look real.
Because I’m tall, I was still at the front edge, trying to guide the bed toward the window. But he was underneath it, arms wrapped around the base, lifting far more of the weight than anyone else. I pushed as hard as I could to get the bed up high enough for the two guys inside to grab hold. Then, I ran inside, and helped guide the rest of the bed through and set it down in its final resting place.
And just like that, it was in.
It wasn’t easy. By the time we were done, my hands and arms ached — cuts on a few of my fingers. It was possible, though, because the right person showed up at the right time to carry the weight.
I’ve thought about that moment a lot since then.
It’s not just because of how much it hurt to carry the bed the first time or how much it hurt to hoist it into the window, but because of how often I’ve done the same thing in my emotional life: picked something up that was never mine to carry.
I didn’t have to carry that hospital bed. I chose to. It was an act of service. And like so many acts of service, it had a clear beginning and end.
Most of the time, however, that’s not how it works in life. The weight sneaks up on you. Someone offloads their guilt. Their insecurity. Their responsibility. And without even noticing, you’re dragging it around like it belongs to you.
I’ve done it more times than I can count. Held onto someone else’s silence. Absorbed pain they couldn’t name. Over-functioned. Over-apologized. Over-managed everyone else’s discomfort while telling myself I was just “helping.”
But I wasn’t helping. I was trying to make the the burden mine so they didn’t have to carry it.
There’s a strange pride in being the one who “can handle it.” Especially if you grew up thinking your value came from usefulness. Especially if you’re a fixer. Especially if you’ve spent years telling yourself that love and loyalty look like always saying yes.
But love isn’t a weight to be dragged. And strength isn’t about how much pain you can silently hold.
It’s about discernment.
It’s about asking: Is this mine?
That bed wasn’t mine. It was an opportunity, not an identity.
And that distinction has taken me most of my adult life to learn.
Why can’t I treat more things like that hospital bed?
Some burdens come with an end date. A task, a moment, or a favor. But others linger because we never pause to ask where they came from.
The grief of a friend you can’t fix. The tension in a job that’s never going to reward your effort. The silence in a relationship you keep filling with your own words, hoping someone else will finally meet you there.
We think: If I just try harder. If I carry more.
But it doesn’t work. Because the weight was never yours.
I’m not saying I’ve got it figured out. I still pick up things that don’t belong to me. I still over-carry. I still confuse endurance with grace.
But I’m learning to pause before I grip the corners. I’m learning to ask the question.
Not can I carry this, but should I?
That one question changes everything; helps me remember that I’m still learning.
And that is enough.
Thanks for reading, and before you go. . .
I’m Aaron Pace. I write from the middle of things — life, business, fatherhood, faith, and the slow work of becoming someone I can live with. Not as an expert, but as someone trying to pay attention.
If this piece resonated with you, I’d be honored if you followed along here on Medium. I write — not because I’ve arrived, but because I’m finally moving again.
No comments:
Post a Comment