Sadness with no return address

Some mornings the weight arrives with no return address. Nothing happened. Nobody said anything. Work is fine, your people are fine, and still it's sitting on your chest. So your mind goes hunting for the reason. Your job. Your friendships. The last ten years. It feels responsible to search. It isn't.

A mood without a subject isn't a verdict on your life. Part of it may be your brain relearning to make its own good feelings, the ones nicotine used to hand it on a schedule. That rebuilding is slow, like a leg finding its strength after weeks in a cast. Stiff at first. Heavy for no reason. Then one day it just holds you.

Meanwhile, a heavy heart makes a terrible detective. Search your life from under a weight and you'll always find something. The friend who stopped calling. The words you wish you'd said. None of it is new. It only looks like the answer in this light. Nothing you conclude today has to be decided today.

Close the case for now and give your body one kindness. Something warm to eat, or ten minutes of air on your face. Tell God the plain truth. I feel awful and I can't say why. He doesn't need the explanation. If the heaviness hangs on for weeks, tell your doctor, and count that as strength. The light comes back, and this time it finds you free.