Part I: To Carry

Why did God give me this gift of empathy?
Why do I have to call it a gift?
Why can’t I call it a curse?

Not a curse because it’s heavy.
But a curse because I can’t always tell who I’m feeling for.
Is this ache mine…
or yours?
Someone I love so deeply my heart wears your wounds like my own.
Someone I’ve walked with so intentionally,
I’ve forgotten where my story ends and yours begins.

Why did God give me this gift of memory?
Why do I have to call it a gift?
Why can’t I call it a curse?

Not a curse because I remember too much.
But a curse because I remember alone.
Because in the quiet moments of our relationship,
I’m the only one who remembers what was said,
what was felt,
what we promised.

Why did God give me this gift of intelligence?
Why do I have to call it a gift?
Why can’t I call it a curse?

Not a curse because my IQ lets me solve problems.
But a curse because I know I can solve them.
Because I can see what’s breaking between us—
and still have to watch it fall apart.

Why did God give me this gift of creativity?
Why do I have to call it a gift?
Why can’t I call it a curse?

Not a curse because I can make things.
But a curse because I never stop.
Because I keep crafting for you—
gestures, words, environments, moments—
even after you stopped showing up to receive them.

I hold them—all of them.
In my mind, in my heart.
Inside jokes.
The sound of your voice when you were scared.
The look on your face when you were proud.
I remember it all.
I feel it all.
I create meaning from it all.
I hold them—all of them, all the time.

I can bear them as gifts…
I just don’t know what God wants me to do with them.

So I stand here—with all this stuff.
Still holding.
Still waiting.
Still walking.

Maybe… the purpose is just this.
The very thing you’re reading.
Holding onto these stones—
so that I may properly tell the story.
So I can communicate what was true…
in my unique style and delivery.
What was sacred…
to people like us,
people of our time.

“Each of you is to take up a stone on his shoulder…
to serve as a sign among you.
In the future, when your children ask,
‘What do these stones mean?’—tell them.”
— Joshua 4:5–7 (excerpt)

---

Part II: To Dance

Why am I built this way?
My uniqueness.

I was born with high levels of empathy.
Not learned. Not developed. Born with it.
I could feel other people’s pain before I even had words for my own.
I could sense a room shift before anyone said a thing.

I was born with high levels of intelligence.
Mensa levels.
Good Will Hunting levels.
The kind of mind that doesn’t miss much—
that sees patterns, cracks, meaning.
That knows too much, too fast.

And here’s the truth I don’t say out loud:
My heart and my mind feel like they are in constant battle.
Which foot should I lead with in this relationship—
at this particular time?
Empathy or logic?
Compassion or clarity?

I fear leading with the wrong foot.
And so…
I often just stand there.

I haven’t figured out—after 45 years—how to jump in with both.
How to balance my footing in relationships.
So instead, I perform this weird dance.
All the time.

I love deeply.
That’s the result of this strange combination.
Empathy, coupled with intelligence—
it’s the cocktail I drink from daily.
It produces a specific kind of love.
One with no in-between. No casual mode.
Just full-heart. Full-mind. Every time.

It’s the only cocktail I know how to make.

So I ask again:
Why am I built this way?
What is the purpose of this wiring?

Why can’t I change the wiring?
So I can make it easier for my heart and mind to be in sync.
So I no longer hear those voices whisper,
“You’re too much… I can’t stay.”
So others don’t leave when they got what they needed.
So I can finally feel comfortable within my own self.

I know God gave me this gift of wittiness.
I do call it a gift.
I can’t call it a curse.

A gift of grace—
so I can wear it as a mask.
A defensive shield, really.
Something I can put on
while I figure this out for myself
and the relationships I am in.

Just lately…
I just don’t feel like putting on that mask.

I want to love myself again.
That deep love that I give, I selfishly want to receive it.
Where the voice says, “I am not too much. I think I’ll stay”
Where my weird dance I perform is not weird at all—
and a significant other reminds me of this
by joining me in the dance and teaching me to jump.

“For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.”
— Psalm 139:13–14 (NIV)