The River Within | Part Two

What the River Is Carrying

Not everything we're carrying belongs on the journey ahead.

The box had been sitting at the bottom of her closet for eleven years.

She hadn't planned to open it.

Actually, she hadn't planned to clean the closet at all.

She'd gone upstairs looking for a sweater.

Forty-five minutes later, half her closet was on the bed, three empty hangers were somehow on the floor, and she was sitting cross-legged beside a cardboard box she'd forgotten existed.

Apparently, this was how closets worked.

You went in looking for one thing and emerged questioning your entire life.

She pulled back the cardboard flap.

Photographs.

Old birthday cards.

A program from a graduation.

A dried flower wrapped in tissue paper.

A stack of letters tied together with ribbon.

And near the bottom, a small black planner.

She recognized it immediately.

For several years, that planner had practically been an extension of her body.

Every square was filled.

Appointments.

Deadlines.

Practices.

Birthdays.

Things to pick up.

People to call.

Things she absolutely could not forget.

There were lists in the margins and little arrows moving unfinished tasks from one day to another.

She flipped through a few pages.

Tuesday.

8:00 meeting
12:30 dentist
Pick up prescription
Call Mom
Send paperwork
Groceries
Laundry

At the bottom, squeezed into the last available space:

Walk.

She smiled.

Apparently, even breathing fresh air had once required an appointment.

She turned another page.

And another.

Everywhere she looked, she saw evidence of a woman who had been extraordinarily good at keeping things moving.

Remembering.

Organizing.

Showing up.

Taking care of things.

Taking care of people.

Being dependable.

She had been proud of that woman.

In some ways, she still was.

But sitting there on the closet floor, she noticed something she hadn't expected.

She felt tired just looking at her.

Not because that woman had done anything wrong.

She had done what life required.

And she had done a lot of it well.

But somewhere along the way, being the person who could handle everything had stopped being something she did and become something she believed she had to be.

She closed the planner.

That thought stayed with her.

How many things was she still carrying simply because she'd become good at carrying them?

She looked around the room.

The box wasn't particularly heavy.

But suddenly, she wondered about everything that couldn't be put into one.

What the River Collects

Rivers carry more than water.

Leaves fall onto the surface.

Branches enter from the banks.

Rain washes soil downstream.

Stones shift.

Sediment gathers.

Some things travel only a short distance.

Others are carried for miles.

And sometimes what a river carries begins changing the way the river itself moves.

People collect things too.

Not just possessions.

We carry roles.

Expectations.

Responsibilities.

Promises.

Relationships.

Memories.

Old rules.

Ways of protecting ourselves.

Ideas about what makes us valuable.

Versions of ourselves that once helped us survive, belong, succeed, or be loved.

Some were chosen.

Some were inherited.

Some simply accumulated so gradually that we never noticed how much we were holding.

And much like the woman sitting on her closet floor, we may not question any of it until something in our lives begins asking us to move differently.

Some Things We Carry Beautifully

This isn't a story about throwing everything away.

There are things we carry because we love them.

There are responsibilities we willingly choose.

People we want to show up for.

Traditions that connect us to where we came from.

Lessons we earned through difficult seasons.

Parts of ourselves we fought hard to become.

Not everything heavy is wrong.

And not everything from our past needs to be released simply because we're growing.

Sometimes the question isn't:

How do I let this go?

Sometimes it's:

Do I still want to carry this in the same way?

That's a very different question.

The Things Without Names

Some of the heaviest things we carry don't look heavy at all.

I have to be the dependable one.

I shouldn't disappoint people.

Changing my mind means I failed.

I've already invested too much to choose something different.

Everyone else seems to be managing this. I should be able to manage it too.

I need to know what I'm doing before I begin.

If I stop taking care of everything, something will fall apart.

These beliefs rarely arrive with labels attached.

We may simply experience them as the way things are.

Until one day we begin wondering why moving forward feels so difficult.

And perhaps part of the answer is:

We're trying to move into a new season while still carrying every rule from the old one.

Back on the Closet Floor

She picked up the planner again.

This time she wasn't looking at the appointments.

She was looking at the woman between the lines.

The one who had learned to be needed.

The one who rarely asked for help because doing it herself seemed easier.

The one who could anticipate what everyone else might need before they asked.

The one who felt strangely uncomfortable when someone said:

“I've got it.”

She smiled at that one.

Apparently there were some things a planner couldn't organize.

For years, she'd told herself:

I'm just a responsible person.

And she was.

But maybe somewhere along the way, responsibility had become tangled with worth.

If she wasn't the one holding everything together...

Who was she?

She didn't have an answer.

But for the first time, she noticed the question.

And sometimes noticing what you're carrying is the beginning of realizing you have a choice about how you carry it.

Pause at the River

You don't need to make a list of everything you need to “let go.”

In fact, I'd rather you didn't.

Instead, get curious.

What roles have I become especially good at playing?

Which responsibilities genuinely belong to me—and which have I simply become accustomed to carrying?

What expectations am I carrying about who I should be?

What do I worry would happen if I stopped being the person who always helps, fixes, achieves, handles it, gets it right, or stays strong?

Which parts of what I'm carrying still feel like mine?

Which parts am I carrying simply because I've carried them for so long?

Then ask: Which parts of what I'm carrying still feel like mine?

And perhaps even more importantly: Which parts am I carrying simply because I've carried them for so long?

You Don't Have to Put It Down

Sometimes awareness gets turned into another assignment.

Great. Now that I've identified this, I need to fix it.

No.

Not here.

You don't need to empty the river.

You don't need to clean out the metaphorical closet before dinner.

And you don't have to make a dramatic declaration that you're no longer going to be responsible, helpful, ambitious, strong, or dependable.

Those qualities may be beautiful parts of you.

We're simply becoming curious about choice.

There's a difference between:

I choose to carry this.

and

I don't know who I am if I stop carrying this.

That difference is worth noticing.

Something to Carry With You

Over the next few days, pay attention to one little word: should.

I should say yes.

I should be able to handle this.

I should stay.

I should know.

I should be further along.

I should keep doing this because I've always done it.

You don't have to stop yourself every time.

Just notice.

And when one catches your attention, quietly ask:

Where did this “should” come from—and does it still belong to me?

Maybe it's yours.

Maybe it belongs to someone you love.

Maybe it came from a much earlier version of you.

Maybe you don't know.

That's okay.

We're not throwing anything into the river yet.

We're simply looking at what's in our hands.

The River Continues

There is an interesting moment that can happen when we stop trying to immediately move forward and stop automatically carrying everything we've brought with us.

Space appears.

Not necessarily an answer.

Not yet.

Just space.

And for people accustomed to doing, solving, planning, helping, and moving, that space can feel surprisingly uncomfortable.

We may rush to fill it.

Or...

we can stay there long enough to discover what becomes visible when the water gets quiet.