I carried my problems around as a kilogram of steel. Condensed, solid, noticeable in my chest, weighing me down. It was small. A weight I was strong enough to bear. If I could hold the weight of my problems, I wouldn’t have to add stress to anyone else. I wouldn’t be a burden. 

     But a kilogram became two, then that became four. It expanded out from my chest, onto my shoulders, and down to my knees. It slowed me down. My thoughts became consumed, my walk slowed, and my head hung. I built armor out of my problems. If I kept to myself, no one could hurt me, and I couldn’t hurt anyone. 

     Two summers ago, I worked for KidSpirit, the OSU summer day camp. On a random Tuesday, one of my campers unfairly got tagged in one of our games of sharks and minnows. They were a good sport but visibly upset, trying their hardest not to cry. 

     I sat down next to them and asked if they were okay. They simply nodded and tried to avoid eye contact. I told them “It’s okay to not be okay, you know?” A simple phrase I’d heard a dozen times before as reassurance in media, but I had never heard used in real life. That was all it took for them to give in, to know that it was okay to cry. That it was okay to be upset. That they weren’t weak or a burden for having emotions. 

     When I kept to myself, I didn’t hurt anyone; instead I hurt myself. One small problem is something I can carry. It was like a kilogram of steel: manageable. But when every problem is a kilogram or more, it becomes too much for a single person to carry. When my camper confided in me, it was something so simple, but I was able to help them carry the weight of the situation. It wasn’t a burden to me to experience their emotions. 

     For now, I still have few people I can convince myself to confide in, but those few people have helped me distribute the weight on my shoulders into something I can handle. I’m not a burden to them. I’m not hurting them. My problems aren’t an annoyance to them. I’m okay to not be okay.