The Knowing: the weight we quietly carry

That feeling you get walking into a room. That knowing before anyone says a word.

I get that feeling, the knowing.

You think it’s a good thing. That it makes you a good clinician, a good friend, a good human. And maybe it does.

But eventually, it turns into something else. Something heavier. Everything starts to stick.

Every interaction leaves debris like emotional lint. And you don’t know how to clean yourself off. You don’t even realize you need a cleaning. The weight becomes normal. You stop noticing it building.

You carry it home in your body. You accumulate it in the in-between moments. The commute. The grocery store. The shower. And over time, it stops leaving.

I was like a vacuum cleaner with no off switch. Every conversation, every patient, every person who needed something from me.

Eventually it got too heavy.

The world dulled. I wanted to be alone, away from even the people who brought me joy. My throat tightened before I spoke, just to keep the tears from spilling. I was a shell of myself.

I didn’t recognize myself anymore.

One day you don’t feel like yourself.

They tell you to take care of yourself. To lean into self-care. To fill your own cup.

Like you haven’t said those same words to hundreds of others.

You think: that applies to them, not me. Too many people need me. I don’t have the luxury of falling apart.

But you are. Quietly. Slowly.

Who holds the space for you?

You were never meant to carry more than your body could hold.

You don’t need another productivity hack. You need a place to shed the excess.

This is part of an ongoing series. More coming soon.