Of course, there’s a physical heaviness; since my MS diagnosis in July 2024, there are times my body simply doesn’t cooperate with my goals. But there’s another meaning, perhaps even bigger, when I say things are 'too heavy.' Right now, life feels too heavy.

My sister, Robin, turns 31 today. She recently shared a dream, a replaying of the intense grief she’s carried over the past twelve months. What really struck me was her feeling that there’s no real space for her to share those feelings, that even those closest to her don’t truly know, understand, or have the capacity to help. And honestly, she’s right. And I feel terrible about that.

I remember a childhood memory, when Robin, just five or six, took a bad tumble down the stairs. The sight of her bleeding foot and her frantic cries filled me with a desperate need to fix it, to make the pain disappear. I tried, as a scared older sister might, to clean her foot and hold her. But logic and emotion didn’t speak the same language then, as they often don't now. There was nothing I, a little girl, could do to truly stop the bleeding.

This feeling of wanting to fix, of feeling utterly helpless, has echoed throughout my life. It’s a familiar ache. It’s why I’ve found solace recently in the podcast 'MeSsy,' and why yesterday, a card they pulled felt so aligned: 'We can’t change the wind. All we can do is adjust our sails to get to our destination.'

As much as I want to take Robin’s pain away for her—to stop her grief, rewrite her story—I know now that ultimately it wouldn’t even help her. My hope is that we can all learn from this realization in our personal lives. Although we will have a desire to take challenges and pain away from our loved ones, they (and ultimately we) may be better served sitting in the ash together.