The Weight We Carry

Written in the weeks following my father's passing, this piece reflects on a childhood shaped by responsibility, and how those early patterns still echo through illness, grief, and generational ties.

I never had a childhood like others.  Mine was filled with responsibility from a very early age.

I was the oldest of six, born into a household that ran on night shifts and necessity. There was a ten-year stretch between me and the youngest, and in that gap, I became more than just a sibling—I became a second parent. Not by title, but by default.

While other kids were chasing fireflies or riding bikes until dusk, I was bathing toddlers, cooking spaghetti for a crowd, and putting squirming bodies to bed before tackling my own schoolwork. Childhood wasn’t something I lived—it was something I managed around everyone else’s needs.

My parents worked nights. That meant the house was mine to hold together. I was the one who made sure the little ones behaved, settled their arguments, and stayed safe. I learned to shout to get things done. Not because I wanted to—but because it was the only language that seemed to cut through the chaos.

When my friends talked about cartoons or crushes, I couldn’t relate. I was ironing clothes with a gas-heated press and trying not to burn dinner. I didn’t learn these things from a book or a parenting class—I learned them from necessity.

The expectation wasn’t spoken, but it was heavy:  Do well in school. Respect adults. Keep it together. Be dependable. Be strong. Be quiet about it.

And I was.

What Was Forged in That Fire

That early forge—hot, relentless, unyielding—shaped more than just my work ethic. It wired my sense of duty. It taught me how to show up when no one else could, how to fill in the gaps. It taught me to lead without permission, to suppress my own needs when someone else’s felt more urgent.

And yes, I shouted. A lot. Not because I wanted to, but because it was the only way my siblings would listen. The only volume that seemed to cut through the noise. That’s not a confession—it’s just how it was. I wasn’t a serene little Buddha guiding the family through adversity. I was a kid trying to hold the line with whatever tools I had. And sometimes, that tool was sheer volume.

I don’t think I ever really stopped being that boy with too much weight on his shoulders. I just got better at carrying it. I learned how to turn it into service, into structure, into something that made sense of the chaos. But it came at a cost—a childhood never fully lived, a softness never fully allowed.

Still, it’s what made me.

The Weight That Doesn't Go Away

And it’s what allowed me to carry the weight again when my father was dying.  When the call came—when decisions had to be made—I didn’t flinch. I stepped forward. Because that’s what I was shaped to do. Not because it was easy, but because it was necessary.

But lately, the weight has changed.

It’s no longer just about holding things together for others. It’s about holding myself together—through the slow erosion of disease, through the quiet, persistent demands of terminal cancer. There’s no putting that to bed. No tidying it up before morning. It’s just there. Always asking me to keep showing up.

And as I’ve carried that, the losses have mounted.

I said goodbye to my stepmother not long after my father. Then Gerry—one of the few people who really saw me—slipped away, too. And now, I watch one of my daughters wrestle with storms I can’t fix. That might be the heaviest of all. To witness her pain and not be able to lift it. To be present without controlling the outcome. To love without rescuing.

The boy in me is tired.

But the man—still shaped by duty, still tempered by fire—keeps showing up. Not to prove anything. Not to be the hero. But because that’s what love looks like, after all these years.

Not soft. 

Not perfect. 

But unwavering.