Look around on a bus or in a waiting room, and you’ll notice the things that people carry. A man clutching a folder of medical records. A teenager hauling a worn backpack. A woman pushing a shopping cart that doubles as a closet.
What we carry reflects what we’re surviving.
As a journalist, I notice these things more than I used to. Part of the job is asking people what they’re carrying, sometimes literally, often emotionally. A mother might bring eviction papers to an interview, not just as proof, but as a symbol of everything she’s up against. A man talking about homelessness might casually mention the tent he leaves unattended, his voice tightening just slightly.
I’ve learned that when someone agrees to speak to a reporter, they’re often handing you something heavy. Not always a trauma, but something personal. Something they’ve been carrying alone for a while.
Sometimes I carry it with me, long after the story’s published. Not in a sensational way, but as a quiet responsibility. I think about the woman who worried her quote would upset her boss. Or the man who thanked me for “just listening,” even though he knew the story wouldn’t change much.
We’re all carrying something. Some of us can pack it neatly away. Others have it strapped visibly to their shoulders. In journalism, the goal isn’t just to point at the load—it’s to ask how it got there, who’s expected to carry it and why some people are burdened more than others.
So the next time you pass someone on the street and catch a glimpse of what they’re holding—papers, keys, a protest sign or just their breath—consider the weight of it. Not all stories make headlines. But they’re there, quietly moving through the world.
And part of my job is to notice them.
