The Weight We Never Saw, The Love We'll Never Forget

The Weight We Never Saw, The Love We'll Never Forget

By Kateb Shunnar

We used to think the lights came on by magic. That groceries just appeared. That clothes somehow showed up every season in drawers we didn’t buy, folded by hands we didn’t see, paid for with money we never earned.

We didn’t know.

We didn’t know the quiet hell our mothers, grandmothers, aunts, and uncles walked through. We didn’t know about the borrowed money, the skipped meals, the overdraft fees that felt like bruises to the soul. We didn’t know about the extra shifts worked on sore feet or the times they smiled with empty pockets. We didn’t know about the late-night pacing, the silent weeping, or the whispered prayers over sleeping children, asking God to "just let us make it through this week."

Some of them lied to bill collectors like poets, spun tales like prophets, and hustled like gospel was survival. They pawned jewelry, flipped groceries into feasts, and made ketchup packets into sauces that tasted like hope. They gave rides to people who never gave gas money, tolerated disrespect from bosses with gritted grace, and still showed up at church with starch in their collar and shine on their shoes.

My own father wasn’t present in my life. But I watched other fathers, stepfathers, uncles, and neighbors stand in the gap. Men who showed up with wrinkled brows and strong backs. Who fixed bikes, taught jump shots, or just stood there silently at the edge of the yard watching, making sure nothing went wrong. They may not have had much to give, but they gave what they could and it mattered.

My grandfather Wallace? That man walked like God had personally handed him the blueprint to survival. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it stuck to your ribs. He took me fishing, crabbing, taught me how to be still and listen not just to the water, but to life. His hands were old but mighty, worn but not weak. You could see every struggle in the lines of his palms, like topography maps of dignity.

And Lord, don’t get me started on the women.

Our grandmothers were architects of miracles. They could make a pot of rice stretch further than a paycheck. They took whatever was in the fridge, seasoned it with faith, and called it dinner. They made us laugh when we had no reason to. They let us cry without calling us weak.

Let me tell you a little folklore I heard as a child when I went to Tambourine and Fan:

There’s a tale of a woman named Auntie Mable who once cooked a pot of beans so seasoned, it made a man propose to her on the spot even though he was already married.

Legend says Mable could stretch a pot of food until it fed thirteen hungry bellies and still had enough left over for the dog. She never owned a cookbook, never measured a thing, and never said “I don’t know how.” Her spoon was her wand, and her apron was her armor. But folks didn’t know she cried every Thursday night while balancing the grocery ledger, praying her food stamps would stretch like her faith.

One day, they say, she marched up to the corner store with an empty pocketbook and nothing but spirit.

She told the store owner, “Put it on my tab.” He said, “Mable, your tab longer than a summer Sunday.” She looked that man in the eye and said, “So is my faith.” He gave her the bread and the beans and a bag of sugar just for the audacity. The next week, she paid every cent. Said, “I don’t rob no man, I just borrow from tomorrow.”

That’s the kind of spirit we come from.

And as men? Lord have mercy, we carry a whole different kind of weight.

Men carry invisible weight. We make jokes about it call it “just stress” or “I’m good” but really, it’s the ache of not being able to say, “I’m scared. I’m broke. I’m failing."

We try to walk like giants while bleeding silently, and the worst part? Our families think we’re okay… because we pretend to be.

We think we’re protecting them by hiding it, but sometimes silence makes our loved ones feel alone when they’re not. Still, it’s hard. Because how do you tell your babies, “I wish I could give you more, but I feel like I’m not enough”?

So instead… we work ourselves half to death, hoping our effort will speak what our lips cannot. We grip the wheel tighter. We stay up later. We shoulder it all like human mules not because we’re superheroes, but because we don’t know how not to.

But let’s say this plain and clear: it’s hard out here being a man.

It’s hard trying to be the foundation, the roof, the walls, and the paint job all at once when sometimes you feel like you’re still trying to finish your own structure. We are expected to be protectors while being under attack ourselves spiritually, mentally, emotionally, economically. We wrestle daily with thoughts we can’t express, fears we can't name, and expectations we were never equipped to meet.

And this is where our women matter more than ever.

We need our women not to press us when we fall but to catch us.

Not to question our masculinity because we’re weary.

Not to weaponize our flaws when we finally become vulnerable.

Not to compare us to men we’re not, or the men on TV who ain’t never had to pray their way through an empty gas tank.

We need our women to pray with us, not just for us.

To remind us that we're still worthy when the world calls us worthless.

To remind us that kings bleed too, but they don’t lose their crown just because they’re tired.

Sisters, wives, mothers, partners your presence is power. Your words can be healing or harmful.

When we break down, we don’t need a lecture we need a soft place to land. A hug that don’t ask for explanations. A voice that says, "I see you, and I still believe in you."

And yes, we’re flawed. We mess up. Sometimes we shut down. Sometimes we get it wrong. But trust it hurts us when we can’t come through.

We wear shame like cologne. We carry failure in our backs like bricks. We scream into pillows and curse the sky because we feel like we’re letting down the people we love even if they never say so.

And for the record, a man being strong doesn’t mean he has no emotion it means he feels deeply but chooses to keep going anyway. But even the strongest need rest. Even the toughest need tenderness. Even warriors need someone to wipe their forehead and say, "You're not alone."

We weren’t meant to carry the full load in silence. Love isn’t just romance it’s reinforcement. It’s teamwork.

A man might carry the weight, but a woman can steady his spine.

So to the women who don’t just watch us struggle but walk with us through it God bless you.

To the women who remind us that our soul matters more than our salary thank you.

To the women who don’t leave when things are low, who help rebuild when things fall apart, who hold space for our silence and still call us good men we see you. And we need you more than we know how to say.

And to the ones who came before us the ones who made a way out of no way, who took the hits, swallowed their pride, worked miracles out of thin air and faith out of thin hope we honor you.

We may not have seen your struggle then, but we see it now.

And we are grateful.