The Story We Carry and the Ones We Let Go

What If Memories Had Weight?

Not the kind you can step on a scale and measure—but something else. A gravity in the chest. A sag in the shoulders. Some stories press down hard and never ask permission. Others ride so lightly, we don’t realize they’ve kept us steady all along.

I’ve carried many stories in my life. Some I chose. Some chose me. And then there are the ones I had to grow into, slowly and not without effort.

A House, a Window, and a New Story

I still remember the day I climbed through the window of an abandoned farmhouse. I was a new single mother, my boys still small enough to wrap their arms around my knees. We’d been driving country roads when I saw it—half-hidden behind a curtain of weeds, the for-sale sign almost swallowed by time.

The front door wouldn’t open. But a window would.

So in I went. Slipped across the sloping floor of the old kitchen and stood there, breathing in dust and silence. And somehow… I felt at home.

It made no sense. The roof leaked. The plumbing was guesswork. The wallpaper peeled in long, curling sighs. But there was something in the bones of that house—something that whispered, you can begin again here.

We did.

For nearly thirteen years, that crooked house taught me about strength and surrender, hope and hard-won faith. It taught me that trust isn’t a leap—it’s a slow unfolding. And that courage sometimes looks like fixing one broken thing before the next one breaks.

What We Carry Without Realizing

That house is gone now. But the story lives in me, as real as the scar on my ankle or the quiet exhale I still let out whenever I see goldenrod in September.

We all carry stories like that. Some are soft-edged and comforting, like an old quilt. Others carry the ache of disappointment, or the sharp jab of words that still sting years later. Not all stories are meant to be permanent.

But we keep them anyway. In drawers. In our gait. In the silence between thoughts.

Some stories we retell until they become part of our definition:
I was never good at relationships.
I always had to be the strong one.
I don’t belong anywhere.

These are heavy, quiet burdens. They show up in how we apologize too often, how we hesitate before asking for help, how we wait for the other shoe to drop even when life is soft around the edges.

A Story I Had to Set Down

There’s one I carried for years—the belief that I had to do everything alone. That asking for help meant failure. That I had to prove myself, again and again.

It looked like strength from the outside. But it was lonely. And exhausting.

Eventually, my body, already compromised by MS, began to speak what my words would not. Severe flare-ups, migraine headaches, unrelenting fatigue. And a hollowness I couldn’t explain.

So I began the quiet work of letting go.

It didn’t happen all at once. Stories don’t leave in a single breath. But over time, that old belief softened. And I began to shape a new one:
Strength can live in shared weight. I found someone to walk beside.
Tenderness doesn’t mean weakness. I opened myself to experience more compassion for others.
Asking is not failing. Asking acknowledges another’s worth and gives them the gift of generosity.

What Letting Go Makes Possible

New stories began to take shape.

Stories about interdependence. About trust. About how it feels to lean without collapsing. Some of these stories don’t have tidy plots or inspiring morals. They just feel better in the body—like lighter air or room to breathe. And the end of crippling headaches.

And that’s the gift of letting go. It makes space.

Space for laughter that isn’t guarded.
Space for rest that isn’t earned.
Space for someone else’s hand in yours, not because you need rescuing, but because life is better when it’s shared.

Legacy of Story and Lightness

Letting go doesn’t mean forgetting. It means allowing space for something new to emerge.

We get to ask:

Does this story still speak truth?
Or is it just familiar?
Is it leading… or lingering?

So much of aging is about sifting. Noticing which stories still serve and which ones simply echo. Not all echoes need answering!

Some stories become lighter over time. Like the day my son destroyed our phone connections trying to play MacGyver.

Others ask to be set down completely. No one needs to hear about negative town politics many decades ago.

There’s a kind of legacy we create not by what we keep, but by what we’re willing to release.

An Invitation to Remember Your Story

Take a quiet moment.

Sit with your own bundle of stories—not with judgment, but with tenderness.

Which ones feel like old friends?

Which ones feel like burdens?

Which might be quietly asking to be let go?

You don’t have to do anything right away. Just notice.

Sometimes, naming the weight is the beginning of releasing it.

And if you find a story that feels too heavy to carry alone, speak it aloud. To a friend. To the page. To the sky. Even to your dog, who won’t understand the words but will understand the weight.

Start Your Own Story Work

If you’re not sure where to begin, I’ve created a resource to help you.

Download my free Storytelling Starter Kit—a reflection-based tool to help you name, shape, and begin to release the stories that define your life. Whether you want to preserve what matters or let go of what no longer serves you, this guide will help you begin.

Because your life is full of stories. Let’s make space for the ones that still need to be told.