The Men Who Held My Hand, But Never My Weight.

A lifetime of looking for somewhere to rest.

Photo by Lina Trochez on Unsplash

The first man to hold me, my dad.

Kind. Humble. The kind of man who would empty his own pockets before letting someone else go without.

He taught me to help those in need, to believe there is always something good waiting on the other side of hardship. To keep going, even when life gave you reasons not to.

I watched him stretch himself thin for everyone he loved. Family. Friends. Relatives. Strangers.

Giving pieces of himself away without ever stopping to ask what was left for him.

He taught me that other people's happiness mattered more than being right. That peace was worth preserving, even when it came at your own expense. That strength meant carrying your burdens quietly, and not letting your emotions take control of you.

I admired him for it.

Until one day, I realized I had learned it too well.

I learned how to make room for everyone. How to understand. How to forgive. How to endure.

And like him, I found myself surrounded by people who mistook kindness for availability, and compassion for permission.

People didn't use him because he was weak. They used him because he was good. And before I knew it, the same thing was happening to me.

I know he only taught me what life had taught him.

But somewhere between learning how to be strong and learning how to be selfless,

I never learned how to choose myself.

I know he did his best, the best he knew, because he too was learning.

He held my hand but not my weight. So, I learnt to carry it myself.

The second man to hold me,

my elder brother. He never showed authority like other brothers did. We fought, we played, We were the cliché of siblings.

I told mom she loved him more, and that made him angry.

It was my responsibility to wake him up for exams. To make sure he got home without fights. To remind him he had to study, or the relatives would scare our parents again of what his future might be.

He helped me get permission to have fun, and I defended him when he was scolded for low scores. He picked me up from stations, from tuitions, when dad couldn’t. And complained he had to leave his game to do it.

We grew up having each other’s backs. He didn’t look out for me, because our parents showed him that he didn’t have to. But I always looked out for him, because they showed me that I must.

As we grew, he never questioned my own choices. Never told me what’s right or wrong. He hid things for me from our parents, I had my share of freedom.

And I felt lucky. Lucky to have a brother like that.

But there were times I wished he’d stopped me. Times I wished he’d looked out for me. Times I wanted him to say, “Don’t fall there, you’ll hurt.” Times I wished he saw me as his little sister to love, not a burden to tolerate.

But maybe that was too much to ask. He believed I was responsible for my own actions. That I should think through, and bear the consequences if I don’t.

He tried to make me stronger, and became someone I could rely on and never rely on at the same time.

And so, I continued to carry my own weight.

The third man to hold me, my first boyfriend.

Crazy. Stupid. Teenage love. We did things without thinking twice. He was my go-to for every wild idea. Every need, any hour of the day.

He handled my tantrums, treated me like a princess, no matter what he was going through.

But when life called for responsibility, he said that was mine. Like it had always been.

I helped with his assignments, his exams, his interviews, the ones he never wanted to sit for.

“It’s only because you asked me to,” he said. And I carried that load too, the one I shouldn’t have.

I thought I could rest there, but I couldn’t. Yet again, I carried the weights myself.

The fourth man to hold me, my ex-husband.

Three years of love before marriage. He loved the parts of me I thought were unlovable. Made me feel safe enough to share every vulnerability. He accepted them all. And then, he told me his imperfections. I accepted those too.

For the first time, I thought I had found it.

A place to rest.

A place where I didn't have to be strong all the time. A place where I didn't have to think ten steps ahead. A place where someone would stand beside me, not behind me, not in front of me, but beside me.

I thought I had finally found what I had been searching for in every man before him.

Not protection. Not permission. Not someone to save me.

Just someone safe enough to share the weight with.

When he held my hand, I felt stronger. Like I could take on the world. Not because he carried me, but because I believed I no longer had to carry everything alone.

I thought we would build something different. A home where neither of us had to shrink. A family where love didn't have to be earned. A place where I could finally exhale.

We promised to care for each other, through every storm.

But soon, I was questioned.

For my choices. For my opinions. For my dreams. For my words.

He made me doubt my own voice. He called me manipulative. Controlling. For asking the bare minimum of love.

The safety I felt slowly turned into vigilance.

I stopped wondering whether I was loved.

And started wondering whether I was allowed to be myself.

I was bruised, on my skin, and in my soul. I gave up everything for him, for his family, and was still never a part of it.

I left mine, and was told I'd never hold the first spot in his life. Because I wasn't from his family.

I was humiliated for asking for peace. For being a wife. Left on streets, to shiver and cry in foreign cities, alone, at night.

And the weight I thought I could finally put down,

was handed back to me.

Heavier than before.

Because this time, it wasn't just my pain I was carrying.

It was the grief of losing the one place I thought would help me carry it.

And then, there is the man society told me exists.

The protector. The provider. The safe one. The one who loves no matter what. The one who leads. The one who stays. The one who keeps you safe. The one who reassures. The one who lets you be.

I've met many men who held my hand. But I've never met one who could hold my weight. So I learned to carry it myself

And I know, it’s unfair to ask a man to walk into my life and rewrite the definition for me.

But being a woman, how do I rewrite this definition myself, until it’s been shown to me?