We All Carry Weight: A walk along the beach that gave me a new perspective on how to look at things.

There’s something sacred about walking alone along a quiet beach. No phone, no noise, no agenda. Just the ocean, the breeze, and your thoughts. I was recently at Pearly Beach — a small, peaceful stretch along the South African coast, untouched by crowds and filled with a sense of timeless solitude. It was one of those rare days where the wind was gentle, the tide was low, and the world felt soft.

I started walking — not with intention, just movement — letting my mind drift as my feet sank into the cool, grainy sand. After about 3.5 kilometers, I veered toward the bush line where the beach meets the coastal scrub. And that’s when I saw them — a peculiar pile of seashells. Big ones, weathered treasures of the sea, just gathered there in a mound like a secret offering.

It wasn’t just a few piled on the surface of the sea sand — the more I dig, the more I found. Dozens. I only later learned that the homeowners nearby collect shells during their morning strolls and leave them in quiet corners of the dunes, perhaps for others to enjoy, or maybe just as an act of gentle devotion to the sea.

I couldn’t resist. I started picking them up. One by one, I cradled these salt-worn beauties in my arms, stuffing them gently into my jacket. Not in a bag — no — this was an impulsive act. My jacket was thin, and soon it bulged awkwardly as I pressed the shells against my chest like a child might hold something precious and breakable. I felt like a little boy that went on a treasure hunt and found this massive treasure.

But then came the weight.

I was now about 4 kilometers from where I was staying. And I had to walk all the way back — only now, I was carrying something. Something awkward. Something heavy. I decided not to go back along the sand. Instead, I took a shortcut through the bush to reach the main road. The walk became slower, less whimsical. With each step, the shells pressed harder into my arms and ribs, shifting uncomfortably, threatening to fall.

My muscles tightened, just to hold on. And suddenly, this walk became something else.

It became a metaphor for life.

We All Carry Something

That walk turned into a mirror. Those shells? They became symbols of all the things we pick up along the way in life — the stories, the burdens, the traumas, the guilt, the dreams, the responsibilities.

We carry weight.

Some of it is chosen — like the sacrifices we make to build a business, to chase a dream, to support a family. These weights are noble, necessary even. But they’re still heavy.

Some of it is inherited — from past mistakes, from people who’ve hurt us, from systems that failed us. These are the weights that slow us down quietly, without us even realising we’ve been dragging them along for years.

And then there’s the kind we’re too afraid to let go of. The weight of comfort zones. The familiarity of struggle. The pain we don’t want to face head-on.

The Uncomfortable Truth About Growth

The further I walked with those shells pressed to my chest, the more uncomfortable I became. They started slipping out. My arms burned. My jacket stretched. And all I wanted was to put them down.

But that’s how growth feels, isn’t it?

There’s a powerful analogy a psychologist once shared with me in my varsity years. He said, “Push yourself to the edge of your comfort zone, and camp there. Stay until it feels familiar. Then pack up and move again.” He described it like concentric circles — you begin in the smallest, and each time you grow, you step into a bigger one.

That’s what we’re meant to do with the weight we carry. Understand it. Sit with it. Learn why it’s there. Don’t just throw it away. Don’t numb it. Because sometimes the burden itself is the lesson. And when you’ve sat with it long enough to understand its shape, only then do you move forward — lighter, wiser.

Letting Go: One Shell at a Time

We live in a culture obsessed with “dropping the baggage” instantly. But healing doesn’t work like that. You don’t just wake up one morning and decide, “I’m done being hurt.” You don’t just cut out habits, patterns, or people overnight. You don’t just stop the pain.

Real transformation is slow. It’s tender. Like weaning off coffee after years of ten cups a day — quitting cold turkey will break you. But start with one cup less. Then two. Then switch to decaf. Then maybe tea. And eventually — one day — your system adjusts.

Same goes for emotional and spiritual weight. Don’t rush. Write down what’s holding you back. Name it. Then choose one thing — the heaviest shell — and work on letting that go first. With intention. With reflection. With grace.

Sometimes the Weight Is Worth Carrying

Here’s the other side of the story.

Not all weight is bad. Some weight is sacred. The long hours, the sleepless nights, the skipped holidays — they’re the bricks we lay on the road to freedom. That’s the weight of purpose. Of hustle. Of building something real. Something that matters.

Sometimes you carry the weight not because you’re stuck, but because you’re climbing. And yes, the mountain is steep. You’ll question yourself. You’ll ache. But with each step, you get closer to the view.

That’s where faith comes in. Trust. Surrender. Belief that all of it — the discomfort, the waiting, the sacrifice — is leading somewhere worth going.

The Walk Home

I got home that day sore and tired. But I also felt something else — clarity. Those shells now sit in a bowl by my front door, a quiet reminder of the day life whispered its wisdom through my arms.

They remind me: we all carry weight. Sometimes it's pain. Sometimes it's purpose. Sometimes it's both.

The important thing is to know why you're carrying what you're carrying — and whether it's time to let some of it go.

So next time you take a walk — even if it’s just in your mind — ask yourself: What weight am I carrying? And what am I learning from it?

Because even the heaviest shells, when held with awareness, can lead us back home — lighter, clearer, and ready to begin again.