The Weight We Often Need

I found this on the Internet and it resounded with my soul so I thought I'd share. I'm unsure of the author's name, but hope it will speak to you-

I used to think burdens were like a hiking pack you didn’t realize was getting heavier. You start the trail feeling good. Confident. Maybe even a little overconfident. The straps are adjusted. The view is nice. You’re thinking, This isn’t so bad.

And then a mile in, your shoulders are on fire.

You stop and check the pack like maybe someone slipped a rock in there when you weren’t looking. You didn’t agree to carry this much. You didn’t pack it intentionally. But somehow the farther you go, the more weight you feel. Every step costs more than the last.

That’s how burdens show up.

Not as some dramatic collapse. Just a steady increase in weight. A season that starts manageable and slowly becomes exhausting. A responsibility, a grief, a situation you didn’t plan for that quietly changes how you move through everything.

We tend to treat burdens like proof something has gone wrong. Like if we were doing faith correctly, the pack would stay light. Like God hands out smooth trails to the people doing it right and uphill climbs to the ones who missed something along the way.

But Scripture keeps saying things that ruin that theory.

“Come to Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

Not come to Me once you’ve lightened the load. Not after you figure out why you’re tired. Just come. With the pack still on. With the straps digging in.

Which makes me wonder if burdens aren’t obstacles at all.

What if they’re bridges.

And I don’t love that idea. Because I would prefer a shortcut. Or a chair. Or for someone to meet me on the trail and say, actually, you don’t have to carry that anymore.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth. I don’t draw closer to God when the trail is easy. I do when I’m tired. I pray differently when I’m out of strength. I listen more closely when my own plans clearly aren’t enough.

Desperate prayers aren’t polished. They don’t sound impressive. They sound like, I can’t do this by myself. And somehow, those are the moments He feels closest.

Jesus didn’t say He would remove every heavy thing. He said, “Take My yoke upon you.” Which means He steps into the weight with us. Close enough to carry it together. Close enough that the load shifts.

And maybe that’s the part we miss.

The burden didn’t mean God stepped away. It meant He stepped closer.

Grief teaches you how to pray without pretending. Hard seasons strip away the illusion that you were meant to carry everything alone. The weight you never asked for becomes the place you finally stop performing and start leaning.

Bridges don’t feel safe when you’re standing on them. They sway. They creak. You can see exactly how far the drop is. But they exist for one reason. To get you somewhere you couldn’t reach on your own.

So if you’re carrying something heavy right now, maybe the question isn’t, "How do I get rid of this?"

Maybe it’s, "Where is this taking me?"

Because sometimes the very thing that brought you to your knees is the thing that brings you closer to the heart of God. And one day you realize you weren’t abandoned under the weight.

You were being carried across.