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The Weight of Being Human

A Journey Through Fragility, Hope, and the Soul’s Quiet Strength

By Muhammad Saad Published 7 months ago 2 min read

It was just past dawn when Liam stood at the edge of the city, watching the sun rise through a haze of glass and steel. The streets behind him pulsed with early traffic and tired people clinging to coffee cups like lifelines. Ahead, the land opened—raw, wide, and silent.

He had walked all night. Not away from something specific, but toward something he couldn’t yet name.

Liam was tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix. It was the kind of tired that sat in your bones, built over years of small disappointments and silent battles. On paper, he was fine—a job, a small apartment, a few friends who texted every now and then. But inside, everything felt like it was slowly unraveling.

Lately, he’d been thinking a lot about what it meant to be human. Not in the abstract, philosophical way people discuss over drinks, but in a personal, aching sort of way. Why did it feel like he was carrying a weight no one could see? Why did the world expect so much, while offering so little peace in return?

He stepped off the pavement and into the tall grass, letting the chill morning air bite at his skin. The silence here was different. Not empty—just honest. It didn't ask anything of him.

Liam sat on a large, weathered rock and looked up. The sky was a soft, unsure blue. The same kind of blue his mother used to paint in watercolors before her hands started to shake.

He missed her. She had understood this kind of tired. She used to say, "Being human means being soft in a world that often forgets softness exists." He hadn’t understood it then. He did now.

He thought about the people he passed every day—the cashier with the tired smile, the bus driver who played old jazz through a cracked speaker, the neighbor who always nodded but never spoke. Were they tired too? Were they carrying this same invisible weight?

A soft rustling drew his attention. A boy, maybe ten years old, emerged from a path nearby, dragging a stick through the dirt. He looked up, surprised to see Liam.

“Hi,” the boy said.

“Hey,” Liam replied.

The boy tilted his head. “You look like you're thinking about big stuff.”

Liam laughed softly. “Maybe I am.”

“My dad says thinking too much makes your heart heavy.”

“Your dad’s a smart man,” Liam said.

The boy shrugged. “He also says you have to keep going, even when things don’t make sense.”

“Even when it hurts?”

“Especially then.”

The boy smiled and waved before disappearing down the path. Liam sat there for a long time, letting the boy’s words settle inside him like a stone dropped gently in water.

Maybe being human wasn't about having all the answers. Maybe it was about feeling everything fully—the joy and the pain, the beauty and the mess. Maybe it was about showing up anyway, holding on through the uncertainty, and finding moments of connection in unexpected places.

The wind shifted, and for a second, Liam felt lighter. Not fixed, not whole, but something softer—something like hope.

He stood, brushed off his jeans, and turned back toward the city.

He was still tired. The world would still be loud and fast and demanding. But he would walk back into it—heart open, eyes clear—carrying not just the weight of being human, but the quiet strength that came with it.

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