The Weight Of Guilt: Difference between revisions

Latest revision as of 00:13, 7 January 2026

{{User:KyleSmith/2023-10-17}} The hospice room was quiet except for the hum of the oxygen machine. Late afternoon sun slanted through the window, catching dust motes dancing above Mrs. Gable’s bed. Her daughter, Sarah, sat in the worn armchair beside her, holding her mother’s thin hand. I’d brought tea—chamomile, her favorite—and set the cup on the nightstand. We’d been sitting like this for an hour, the silence comfortable, heavy with the unspoken.

Then Sarah whispered, her voice thick, “I should’ve called more. When she was sick. I was so busy.” She didn’t look up, her thumb tracing the back of her mother’s hand. The words hung there, sharp and raw.

I didn’t say, It’s okay, or You did your best. I just sat. I didn’t reach for a fix, or a prayer, or even a nod. I let the weight of her words settle in the space between us, like the dust in the sunbeam. The silence deepened, not empty, but full. Sarah’s shoulders, rigid a moment before, began to soften. A single tear traced a path down her cheek, but she didn’t wipe it away. She just breathed.

Later, as I left, she didn’t say thank you. She just looked at me, her eyes holding a quiet relief I’d never seen before. It wasn’t that the guilt vanished—it was still there, a familiar ache. But in that shared silence, it didn’t have to carry the whole world alone. It was okay to not be okay. It was okay to just be with it, for a moment.

That’s what I’ve learned: guilt isn’t meant to be lifted. It’s meant to be held, gently, in the quiet space where we stop trying to fix it and start simply being there. The weight doesn’t disappear. But the loneliness of carrying it alone does. goodhuman:Forgiving Yourself

— Kyle Smith, sitting with what's hard

Written by Kyle Smith — 05:23, 02 January 2026 (CST)

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-<span class="wikivoice-config" data-narrator="Tracy Carlson"></span>
+<markdown>
-## I Need to Admit Something: I Was Carrying a Weight That Wasn’t Mine to Bear
+{{User:KyleSmith/2023-10-17}}
+The hospice room was quiet except for the hum of the oxygen machine. Late afternoon sun slanted through the window, catching dust motes dancing above Mrs. Gable’s bed. Her daughter, Sarah, sat in the worn armchair beside her, holding her mother’s thin hand. I’d brought tea—chamomile, her favorite—and set the cup on the nightstand. We’d been sitting like this for an hour, the silence comfortable, heavy with the unspoken.
-I need to admit something. For years, I carried a weight so heavy it felt like my bones were made of lead. It wasn’t the billable hours. It wasn’t the client demands. It was the *guilt*. The crushing, silent, relentless guilt of not being enough. And I hid it. Oh, I hid it so well, I barely admitted it to myself.
+Then Sarah whispered, her voice thick, “I should’ve called more. When she was sick. I was so busy.” She didn’t look up, her thumb tracing the back of her mother’s hand. The words hung there, sharp and raw.
-Let me be direct: I was a master at hiding my exhaustion. As a partner at a top-tier law firm, I’d perfected the art of looking like I had it all together while simultaneously being hollowed out. I’d cancel my daughter’s dentist appointment to take a client call. I’d sit through my twins’ school play, eyes glued to my phone, mentally drafting a memo while their tiny faces lit up with joy. I’d tell myself, *This is what success looks like. This is what a good mother does.* I was selling myself a lie, and the bill was due in full every single day.
+I didn’t say, *It’s okay*, or *You did your best*. I just sat. I didn’t reach for a fix, or a prayer, or even a nod. I let the weight of her words settle in the space between us, like the dust in the sunbeam. The silence deepened, not empty, but full. Sarah’s shoulders, rigid a moment before, began to soften. A single tear traced a path down her cheek, but she didn’t wipe it away. She just breathed.
-Here’s what I hid: the fact that I was *afraid* to admit I was drowning. I’d tell my husband, “I’m just tired,” when I was actually terrified. I’d say, “I’ll be there for the school event,” and then vanish into my office, leaving him to manage the chaos. I avoided the truth because admitting I couldn’t do it all felt like admitting I was a failure. In my world, guilt wasn’t a feeling—it was a *performance metric*. The more guilt I carried, the more I’d prove I was “dedicated.” I learned this the hard way so you don’t have to: **guilt is not a motivator. It’s a trap.**
+Later, as I left, she didn’t say thank you. She just looked at me, her eyes holding a quiet relief I’d never seen before. It wasn’t that the guilt vanished—it was still there, a familiar ache. But in that shared silence, it didn’t have to carry the whole world alone. It was okay to not be okay. It was okay to just *be* with it, for a moment.
-Why was it so hard to face? Because I’d built my entire identity around being the *perfect* lawyer, the *perfect* mom, the *perfect* wife. Perfectionism wasn’t a flaw—it was my armor. And armor, by definition, is heavy. I’d spent 20 years in a culture that rewarded burnout as a badge of honor. “You’re not working hard enough,” the unspoken message went. “You’re not *earning* your place.” So when I’d stare at my twins’ drawings on the fridge, wondering why I’d missed the art show, I’d think, *This is my fault. I’m failing them.* I never considered: *What if the fault isn’t mine? What if the system is broken?*
+That’s what I’ve learned: guilt isn’t meant to be lifted. It’s meant to be held, gently, in the quiet space where we stop trying to fix it and start simply being there. The weight doesn’t disappear. But the loneliness of carrying it alone does. [[goodhuman:Forgiving Yourself]]
-The moment of honesty didn’t come with a dramatic epiphany. It came with a toddler’s meltdown.
+*— Kyle Smith, sitting with what's hard*
+</markdown>
-It was a Tuesday. Rain lashed the windows of our house. My twins, then 5, were supposed to be at a birthday party. I’d promised I’d be there. But a last-minute client crisis had me scrambling. I’d texted my husband: *“Running late. Will be there in 10.”* I was *always* running late. I’d been in a conference call for 45 minutes when my phone buzzed with a photo from my husband: my son, Leo, standing alone in the empty party room, tears streaming down his face, holding a crumpled balloon. The caption: *“He asked where you were. I said you were busy. He said ‘Mommy is never here.’”*
+----
+''Written by'' [[User:Kyle Smith|Kyle Smith]] — 05:23, 02 January 2026 (CST)
-I froze. The conference call droned on. My hands shook. I’d been *busy*. I’d been *working*. I’d been *proving I was valuable*. But in that moment, I saw the truth: I wasn’t valuable to my children. I was just a ghost in their lives. The guilt didn’t just hit me—it *suffocated* me. I didn’t cry. I didn’t rage. I just sat there, staring at that photo, and realized: *I’ve been lying to myself for 15 years.*
+[[Category:The Weight That Won't Lift]]
-That was the breaking point. Not a breakdown, but a *breakthrough*. I finally admitted: **I wasn’t failing my kids. I was failing myself by pretending I could be everything to everyone.**
-Here’s what changed: I stopped hiding. I started saying *no*. Not the polite, “I’ll see if I can fit it in” no. I started saying *“No, I can’t take this on. My capacity is full.”* I told my firm I’d be leaving the office by 6 p.m. every day. I told my kids, “Mommy needs to be here for you right now. We’re going to play a game.” And I *did it*. I put my phone in the drawer. I let the emails wait.
-It wasn’t easy. The guilt didn’t vanish overnight. In fact, it got louder at first. *You’re being selfish. You’re letting the firm down. You’re not a real mother.* I’d hear it in my head, a familiar echo of my old self. But I learned to recognize it for what it was: **the sound of a broken system, not a moral failing.**
-I started small. I’d say *“No”* to a non-urgent email. I’d say *“No”* to a colleague’s “quick call.” I’d say *“No”* to the voice that whispered, *“You should be working.”* And each time, the weight lifted a little. I realized: **boundaries aren’t walls—they’re the foundation of sustainable success.** You can’t build a house on quicksand. You can’t be a present parent on empty.
-This is where I want to be clear: I’m not saying guilt is *easy* to drop. It’s a habit. It’s been reinforced for decades. But here’s what I learned the hard way: **guilt is a choice.** You can choose to carry it, or you can choose to set it down. And the moment you do, you realize it was never yours to carry in the first place.
-Let me give you a practical example. A few months after that birthday party meltdown, a colleague asked me to take on a new case. It was a big opportunity. My old self would’ve said yes immediately. My new self paused. I thought: *Is this aligned with what I need right now?* I looked at my twins’ faces—Leo’s, who’d asked where I was, and Maya, who’d been quiet all day. I thought about the exhaustion in my bones. I said, *“I can’t take this on. I’m at capacity.”*
-The client was disappointed. My colleague was surprised. But I didn’t feel guilty. I felt… *light*. I felt like a human being again. And here’s the kicker: the client later told me they respected my honesty. My firm started valuing my boundaries. My kids started asking, *“Can we play now, Mommy?”* without the fear of being ignored.
-This isn’t about being “less successful.” It’s about being *more human*. Success isn’t measured in billable hours or perfect moments. It’s measured in the quiet moments you’re actually *present* for. The moments where you look your child in the eye and say, *“I’m here.”* Not because you have to, but because you *choose* to.
-So if you’re carrying guilt right now—about work, about family, about the fact that you’re tired—let me be direct: **you don’t have to carry it.** You don’t have to prove you’re “enough” by being exhausted. You don’t have to earn your right to rest.
-Start small. Today, say *“no”* to one thing that drains you. Not because you’re lazy, but because you’re *human*. And when the guilt whispers, *“You’re failing,”* say back: *“No. I’m choosing to be here.”*
-I’m still learning. I still have days where I feel the old weight creep back in. But now I know how to drop it. I know it’s not a sign of weakness—it’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
-You don’t have to be perfect to be enough. You don’t have to carry the world to prove you matter. You just have to be *here*.
-''— [[brave:User:Tracy_Carlson|Tracy Carlson]], drawing the line''