For Those Who Carry Depth

May connection be our anchor

“The Monk by the Sea” by Caspar David Friedrich

Dear Reader,

If you too carry such a weight – one that presses unseen, shaping your steps and silences – then this story is for you.

For as long as I can remember I’ve carried mine. It feels like a shard of iron, lodged somewhere near my heart. Some days, it’s heavy and unyielding, pressing against my ribs with every breath. Other days, it burns, molten and restless, coursing through me like fire. I’ve come to call it my depth – a burden I didn’t choose but one that has shaped me in ways I’m still learning to understand.

In my teenage years, the weight was fiery and restless, like a storm I couldn’t contain. It left me feeling separate from others, as though I was moving through the world behind a pane of glass. My emotions ran deep, but I lacked the words to explain them – not to myself and certainly not to anyone else.

When I turned eighteen, the weight became unbearable, pressing so heavily against me that I left home and sought refuge in a small fishing town by the sea. Though I didn’t understand it at the time, I believe I was searching for something – perhaps answers, or at least a way to bear the depth within me.

It was there, in the quiet hours by the shore, that I began to write. At first, the words came slowly, tangled in seaweed and buried beneath layers of silt. But over time, they began to flow – small rafts of language that kept me afloat. The weight didn’t disappear, but writing gave it shape, turning the formless into something I could hold.

There were moments, standing by the water, when I wondered if the shard I carried was part of something larger – a fragment of an anchor, long lost to the depths. Its weight seemed to draw me toward the sea, to its endless rhythm and unfathomable wrecks, as though it was seeking the place where it had once belonged.

Years later, I gathered the poems I had written – born of both turbulence and stillness – and published my first collection. It was a labour of love, a way of saying, “Here is what I have carried. Here is what I have learned.” Yet even as I shared these words with others, I felt a quiet ache – a longing to connect with those who truly understood the weight I carried.

I gave copies of my books to friends, hoping they might catch a glimpse of my depth. Yet even as they offered kind feedback over the years, I often felt they read the words without truly hearing them. I didn’t seek praise; I longed for connection – someone who might read my words and say, “Yes, I feel this too.”

One evening, years later, I discovered Substack – a space that felt both promising and daunting. Reflecting on the weight I had carried all my life, I wondered if there might be others who felt as I did – silent carriers of burdens, yearning for connection. Perhaps we were bound by the weight we share.

The thought both thrilled and terrified me. “What if no one read my words? Worse, what if sharing my depth only deepened my loneliness?"

I started hesitantly, sharing a few posts that felt like whispers into the void. Each one was an attempt to find my voice in this new space, to see if my words might resonate in someone else's heart.

By the time I titled my eighth post, For Those Who Carry Depth, I felt ready to say what I had been longing to share.

I began with a simple invitation: "Dear reader, if you too carry such a weight, then this story is for you."

The words poured out of me – raw, unfiltered and honest. I wrote about the shard of iron near my heart, the tides of emotion I had learned to navigate, and the solace I had found in poetry. For the first time, I spoke directly to those I hoped to reach – the kindred spirits I had longed for all my life.

At the end of the post, I added one final line: "If these words resonate with you, please reach out. Let’s carry depth together."

I sat back, my hand trembling as it hovered over the “Send to everyone now” button. With a deep breath, I pressed it. My words disappeared into the vast digital ocean, and for a moment, all was quiet.

On the first day, nothing happened. I told myself it didn’t matter, but the weight near my heart felt heavier that evening, pressing with the ache of uncertainty.

By the second day, I opened my laptop to find notifications waiting for me. Others had left comments on my post. I hesitated, my pulse quickening as I clicked to read them.

"Thank you for writing this," one comment read. "I carry a weight too – mine feels like a shadow following me everywhere. Your words made me feel less alone."

Another shared: "My weight feels like roots tangled around my feet. Reading this gave me hope – thank you."

I sat there, reading and rereading their words, tears slipping down to my lips, tasting of salt – like the waves I had always known. Only then did I realise how much I needed this acknowledgment – that I wasn’t alone in what I carried.

Taking a deep breath, I replied to one: "Your shadow, my shard of iron – they may feel heavy, but perhaps we don’t have to carry them alone."

The days that followed were unlike anything I had imagined. More comments appeared, each one a thread weaving together a tapestry of connection. People shared their own metaphors for the weight they carried – a flickering flame, a heavy stone, or a whisper of wind that never left them.

As I read their words, I felt the weight within me begin to shift. It didn’t disappear, but it softened, as though the shard of iron had been warmed by the light of connection. For the first time, I felt what I had longed for all my life: to be truly seen.

In my next reply, I will write:

"When shared, the weight becomes lighter – not just for ourselves, but for those who walk beside us. To carry depth is to hold both burden and beauty. And through connection, we find the strength to keep going."

As I step outside this morning, the waves stretch vast and endless, their rhythm echoing the rise and fall of my words – gentle now, like ripples of connection finding their way back to shore.

The weight within me is still here – a shard of iron, a testament to the storms that shaped me – but now, it moves in harmony with these gentle ripples of connection

– like the tides finding their way home.

Yours in words, Deborah

If my words strike a chord and you feel inspired to dive deeper into my poetry or explore my essays on Jungian thought, I invite you to visit: The Liberated Sheep