The Rare, Holy Places

It took 107 miles on foot, with a pack on my back, to reach this bridge. Some weights we choose. Others, we inherit. All of them shape us.

September 26, 2025

I’ve been carrying heavy things for as long as I can remember.

As a child, I carried loneliness and parentification.

In my family, I carried the weight of a century-old business,

renovating a grocery store with no experience,

transforming it into more than a market—

into a beloved community center.

I carried the calm of watching it all destroyed in a landslide,

the grief of generations compressed into rubble overnight.

All while single-parenting three kids,

balancing service

while chasing my own dreams—

on stage, in film, in leadership.

I can carry a lot.

But there are days when the weight presses differently.

Not because I can’t hold it.

But because there are so few places

where I don’t have to.

Carrying has become my role, my rhythm, my identity.

People see my strength and assume I’ll hold it all.

And most of the time, I do.

I lead, I show up, I write, I hold steady.

But I wonder—

where are the spaces where I can set it down and be held?

I want those spaces.

I deserve those spaces.

I grieve those spaces.

Because strength isn’t just carrying.

Strength is knowing when to let it rest.

Strength is finding the people and places

where the weight doesn’t have to be mine alone.

Until then, I will carry.

But I won’t pretend it’s easy.

And I won’t stop longing for the rare, holy places—

to be held.