Who carries the one who carries

The meals. The calls. The forms. The person falling apart in the doorway again. Everyone else gets to fall apart. You don't. And somewhere behind your eyes you've been keeping score. It says you've earned ten minutes where nobody can find you. The tiredness is real. Every ounce of it.

Ten minutes to smoke in hiding isn't rest. It's vanishing. You come back a step further away, carrying one more thing to keep quiet, right when people need to see you standing there. The cigarette rents you a hole in the day and calls it a break.

You do need a break. Take the real one, out in the open. Say it to whoever's nearest: I'm taking ten. Then go to another room, lie flat on the floor, and let it take your whole weight. Arms out. Eyes on the ceiling. For ten minutes, something else does the holding.

Talk to God from down there, even in fragments. Being the one everyone leans on doesn't mean nobody's holding you. He is. Then get up and go back to them, still tired, but in plain sight. Nobody lost you today, and you didn't lose yourself either.