When Your Muscles Ain’t Mine.

Author’s Opening Note

Here is an unknown fact most people never stop to consider. Emotional endurance does not grow evenly in human beings. It does not line up neat like pews in a church or chairs at a second line. Some folks were taught how to carry pain early. Others were taught how to hide it. And some were never taught anything except how to survive another day without falling apart in public. That alone should make us slow our mouths.

I did not write this because I figured something out. I wrote this because something broke open. I wrote this with my feet planted in New Orleans soil where we laugh loud at funerals and cry quiet in grocery store aisles. I wrote this after watching strong looking people fold in private and fragile looking people hold whole families together with nothing but prayer duct tape faith and a tired smile. I wrote this knowing good and well I have been guilty too. Oh yes. Me too. Especially me.

Let me say this plain before we go any further. If you have ever looked at someone and thought I would have handled that better this reflection is for you. If you have ever said get over it without knowing what it took for them just to get up that morning this reflection is for you. And if you have ever been the one people judged because your knees buckled where theirs did not this reflection is especially for you.

There is a little humor in here because New Orleans taught me if you cannot laugh you will drown. There is sarcasm too because sometimes truth needs a side eye to get your attention. But underneath all that is my heart laid flat on the table like Monday's red beans done right. No rushing. No shortcuts.

Read this slow. Let it talk back to you. And if at any point you feel uncomfortable good. Growth usually shows up like that.

When Your Muscles Ain’t Mine.

A Reflection on Strength Struggle and the Mercy We Owe Each Other.

by Kāteb Shunnar.

Never judge someone’s struggle by your strength is not just a saying. It is a spiritual law we keep breaking like it got no consequence. Down here in New Orleans we know better. We see it every day. The man dancing on the corner with a Saints hat older than his shoes might be holding together grief that would flatten somebody with a six figure salary and a therapist on speed dial. The woman smiling behind the counter at the corner store might be using that smile as a brace to keep her spirit from collapsing before her shift ends. But folks walk past them with opinions loaded and compassion unloaded.

Strength is contextual. That is the part we keep skipping. Your strength came from somewhere. Maybe you had backup. Maybe you had a praying grandmother who called your name before dawn. Maybe you had a soft place to land when life punched you in the mouth. Or maybe you survived so long in chaos that chaos feels like home and you mistake numbness for toughness. That happens too.

What we call weak is often just tired. What we call dramatic is often someone whose pain finally ran out of hiding places. And what we call lazy might be a soul that has been carrying too much for too long without rest or recognition. But instead of asking questions we pass judgments like beads at Mardi Gras. Cheap. Colorful. And thrown without care for where they land.

New Orleans teaches you early that everybody limping got a story. Some limps come from hurricanes. Some from addiction. Some from loving the wrong people too hard. Some from being strong for everybody else until nobody noticed you were empty. You cannot look at a limp and decide how far somebody should be able to walk. That is not how bodies or spirits work.

I remember sitting on a cracked stoop not far from Claiborne watching two men argue about who had it harder. One had lost his job. The other had lost his brother. Both were hurting. Both were measuring pain like it was a competition. And neither one was listening. That is what judging struggle by your own strength looks like in real time. It turns pain into a scoreboard and compassion into a rumor.

Spiritually mature people know better. Or at least they are supposed to. Maturity is not flexing how much you can take. Maturity is recognizing that somebody else might be bleeding where you are bruised. And bleeding changes everything.

We love to say if I can do it so can you. That sounds motivational until you realize how dismissive it really is. It erases history. It erases trauma. It erases chemistry in the brain and wounds in the nervous system and the quiet damage done by years of being talked down to or overlooked. It assumes your ladder is leaning against the same wall as theirs. Most times it is not even the same building.

There is a dangerous arrogance in assuming your capacity is the standard. That arrogance shows up in families churches workplaces and friendships. It sounds like advice but feels like judgment. It pretends to help but actually shames. And shame has never healed anybody. Shame just teaches pain how to hide better.

And hiding takes strength too.

Down here we say mind your step because uneven ground will trip you if you get careless. People are uneven ground. Not because they are broken but because life hit them from angles you never had to face. The spiritually awake know this. They tread softer. They listen longer. They stop diagnosing folks like everybody got a degree in somebody else’s mind.

We have gotten too comfortable labeling people. We throw words around like they are harmless. Narcissist. Crazy. Broken. Toxic. As if a mouth cannot bruise worse than a fist. As if language does not lodge itself in the spirit and swell over time. Even water dripping steady can carve stone. And some of us been dripping on people for years then wondering why they finally cracked.

You do not need a diagnosis to acknowledge harm. But you also do not need cruelty to feel powerful. Describing behavior is different than branding a human being. One invites accountability. The other invites exile. And exile is a heavy thing to hand someone already struggling to breathe.

I have watched strong people become cruel because nobody ever taught them how to be gentle. I have watched wounded people be misjudged because their pain did not perform politely. And I have watched entire communities confuse toughness with holiness. That confusion costs us souls.

We are not all built the same. Thank God. Different thresholds different talents different wiring. The Creator did not mass produce spirits. So why do we keep using one ruler to measure everybody’s pain.

This reflection is not asking you to excuse harm. It is asking you to stop confusing empathy with weakness. It is asking you to pause before you speak. To listen before you fix. To remember that strength is not proven by how little mercy you give but by how much you can offer without needing credit.

And if this is making you uncomfortable stay right there. Something honest is happening.

Comparison got a sneaky kind of cruelty to it. It do not kick the door in or raise its voice. Nah. It sit down polite, cross its legs, sip your coffee, then casually shrink somebody else’s pain like it know better. It sound like well I went through that and I was fine or if it was me I would have handled it different. That mess wear confidence like cologne and call itself wisdom. But truth be told it is just discomfort dodging dressed up real cute.

And sitting with discomfort is holy work whether folks want to admit that or not.

New Orleans knows all about sitting with discomfort. We been sitting with it for generations. Storms. Loss. Poverty. Faith tested on a Tuesday morning before the coffee even kick in. Folks fly in here and say yall resilient like they handing out a compliment, not realizing resilience often means nobody came when you called. It means you learned how to laugh loud so your spirit would not crack in half. It means dancing while your house still smell like damp walls and heartbreak. So when somebody praises strength but skips over the cost, it land wrong. Like clapping with no rhythm.

Same thing happen in everyday life. Somebody see you standing and assume you never crawled. They see the smile and miss the sleepless nights. They cheer the outcome but ignore the shaking knees that got you there. Then they turn around and use your story like a measuring cup for somebody else. Baby that is how pain get passed down like an heirloom nobody wanted.

Strength is not transferable. You cannot pour your endurance into somebody else and expect it to sit right. Their cup might already be chipped from stuff you never had to face. How you were raised matters. What you lost matters. Being broke tired scared unheard or constantly on edge matters. Silence matters. Not feeling safe matters more than most folks care to admit. Everybody did not start this race from the same block even if the finish line look the same.

I learned that watching elders on front porches telling stories that had more laughter than truth on the surface. Sweet talk on top. Heavy history underneath. One elder told me once everybody got a breaking point some folks just better at hiding where theirs live. That stuck. Hiding takes effort. Pretending is work. Acting okay so everybody else feel comfortable will drain your spirit quicker than just admitting you tired.

And whew do we shame collapse. Especially spiritual collapse. We call it weak faith. We tell people pray harder without asking who praying with them. We throw scriptures like confetti on wounds that need stitches then wonder why folks stop showing up. Judgment dressed up like holiness done chased more people from healing than rebellion ever did.

Never judge someone’s struggle by your strength also means stop thinking maturity wear one outfit. Some people worship loud. Some whisper their prayers. Some praise by surviving the day without giving up. Some worship by finally saying no and not explaining it ten times. Growth do not always look gentle. Sometimes it look like distance. Sometimes it look like rest. Sometimes it look like peace that make other people uncomfortable.

Down here there is an old piece of folklore folks pass around between kitchen tables and barbershop chairs. Ain’t never been written down. They say long ago there was a woman who lived by the river who could carry more water than anybody else. Folks admired her arms, her balance, her strength. Buckets on both sides, not a drop spilled. Anytime somebody got tired they handed their bucket to her. She never fussed. She just carried it. Over time she carried everybody’s water until one day she collapsed by the river and the water kept moving without her. Folks gasped and said but you the strong one. And the elders said strength do not mean endless. It just mean you carried until nobody helped you put it down.

That story still preach.

Because we still do that mess to people. We spot who can handle things and then pile it on. We judge the ones who cannot keep up instead of asking why the load got so heavy. And when the strong finally fall out we act surprised like gravity got favorites.

Empathy takes imagination. It asks you to picture pain you never felt and not try to rank it like a contest. It asks you to listen without jumping in with your own story like it a relay race. It asks you to understand that advice offered too fast usually help the speaker feel important more than it help the listener heal. Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is shut up and stay.

And can we talk about labeling folks real quick. Armchair diagnosing done got out of hand. Everybody a something now. We toss words around like they harmless then act confused when people pull back. Labels shrink people. Description opens doors. Saying someone hurt me is different than saying someone is broken. One invite accountability. The other banish folks to exile. And exile is heavy to put on somebody already struggling to breathe.

Your mouth got weight whether you acknowledge it or not. Words land. They stick. They echo. That steady drip of criticism sarcasm and judgment can wear down a soul just like water carving stone. So when you speak from your strength without regard for somebody else’s tenderness you might be damaging something sacred.

Everybody want grace when they at their weakest. The real question is will you give it when you feeling strong. Compassion do not show up when it is convenient. It show up when it cost you pride patience and the need to be right.

And here go the part nobody like to hear. Sometimes judging somebody else struggle by your strength is just a way to avoid dealing with your own unhealed mess. It is easier to critique than reflect. Easier to advise than admit you still learning. But humility open doors. And connection live on the other side of that door.

We are different on purpose. Different thresholds. Different wiring. Different scars. The Creator knew exactly what They were doing. So maybe the assignment is not making everybody tougher. Maybe the assignment is making ourselves kinder and minding our tone while we at it.

Author’s Closing Words

If you still here with me, thank you. For real. That mean you did not skim this like elevator music. Something in here slowed you down. Maybe made you nod. Maybe made you sigh. Maybe made you say well damn under your breath. I honor that.

I did not write this because I got it all figured out. I wrote it because I am still learning how to be gentle in a world that clap for toughness and reward fast opinions. I am still learning how to pause before my mouth run ahead of my heart. Writing this stretched me. It checked me. It reminded me that strength without compassion is just noise with confidence.

If this reflection touched you, please help it travel. Share it by any positive means. Text it. Post it. Read it to somebody you love. Pass it along like something precious. Words only matter when they move.

And if you are able, I ask for your support. Writing like this takes time prayer emotional labor and sometimes tears that never make it to the page. Donations help keep this work alive and growing. Any support given is received with deep gratitude and humility.

Most of all I hope you walk away softer. Not weaker. Softer. I hope you judge less and listen longer. I hope you remember everybody you meet is carrying something unseen. And when it is your turn to struggle I hope somebody meets you with the same grace you chose to give.

Thank you for sitting with me.

Thank you for hearing me.

And thank you for choosing compassion.

Kateb Shunnar

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