Unworn Shoes and the Weight We Carry for Others

There are shoes in my heart that were never worn.

Not lined up neatly.

Not organized.

Not even visible most days.

But they’re there.

Quiet.

Waiting.

Like a small, private museum of lives that almost happened.

Some of those shoes belonged to people I love.

Some belonged to younger versions of me.

Some belong to possibilities that only ever existed for a moment—

just long enough to leave an imprint.

Gym shoes that never made it to practice.

Dress shoes that never crossed a stage.

Work boots that never stepped into a calling.

Dance shoes that stayed in their box.

Bare feet that never even made it to the path.

Each pair carries the shape of a dream.

Not imagined vaguely—

but spoken.

Envisioned.

Planned.

Real enough to rearrange a life around for a while.

Real enough to buy supplies for.

Real enough to stay up late talking about.

Real enough to glow.

And then…

for one reason or another…

never lived.

And still—

I carry them.

Not out of resentment.

Not as proof of anything.

Not to keep score.

I carry them because I remember.

I remember the spark in their voices when they first said it out loud.

The way their bodies leaned forward like the future had already opened.

The drawings taped to walls.

The costumes tried on in living rooms.

The half-filled applications.

The notebooks stuffed with diagrams and lyrics and plans.

I remember the moment before doubt.

Before the world got louder.

Before “be realistic” started whispering over “what if.”

I remember the alive version of them.

And something in me refuses to pretend that version never existed.

But what I didn’t realize for a long time is this:

Carrying someone else’s unlived dream has weight.

Not dramatic weight.

Not the kind that collapses you.

The quiet kind.

The kind that sits low in the ribs.

The kind you only notice when you finally set everything down and exhale.

Because when you’re an empath…

a healer…

a guide…

a space-holder…

you don’t just witness people’s becoming.

You witness their almosts.

And sometimes the almosts stay with you longer than the victories.

No one talks about this grief.

Because nothing technically “happened.”

No one died.

No tragedy struck.

Life just… redirected.

Responsibilities grew.

Confidence thinned.

Timing shifted.

The dream got folded carefully and placed on a shelf.

And everyone moved on.

Except you.

You’re still standing there, holding the shoes.

There is so much invisible grief in this world.

Not because of death.

But because of what never got to live.

Books never written.

Songs never recorded.

Businesses never started.

Art never shared.

Love never spoken.

Courage never tested.

Entire lifetimes that hovered at the edge of becoming and then quietly stepped back.

And if you’re sensitive enough—

if you’re wired the way some of us are—

you feel those absences like phantom limbs.

You feel the shape of what could have been.

Not as regret.

As tenderness.

I think this is part of what it means to be a soul-guide.

Or a parent.

Or a friend who believes fiercely.

Or the one in the family who says, “Try anyway.”

You become a keeper of possibility.

A witness.

A quiet archivist of other people’s light.

You’re the one who remembers:

You loved painting.

You wanted to travel.

You said you’d open that café.

You were going to write that book.

Not to pressure.

Not to guilt.

But because something in you knows those sparks were sacred.

And sacred things deserve to be remembered.

But here’s the part I’m only just learning:

We don’t have to carry all of it forever.

We can honor without hauling.

We can remember without shouldering.

We can bless those unworn shoes…and set them down.

Because they were never ours to walk in.

Only ours to witness.

Unworn shoes don’t mean failure.

They don’t mean someone didn’t try hard enough.

They don’t mean love wasn’t present.

Sometimes they simply mean:

The season wasn’t right.

The body wasn’t ready.

The world wasn’t kind.

Or the dream needed to change shape.

Sometimes they mean:

Someone was brave enough to imagine at all.

And someone else—

maybe you—

was brave enough to say,

“I believe you.”

So this is for the ones who’ve held space for someone else’s bloom.

For the parent who kept the art supplies ready.

For the friend who read every draft of the book that never got finished.

For the partner who rearranged life around a dream that didn’t land.

For the healer who sees the gifts in people they can’t yet see themselves.

For the ones still tending to their own childhood wounds while tending everyone else’s gardens.

I see you.

Your tenderness is not foolish.

Your remembering is not weakness.

Your grief is not misplaced.

It’s proof that you loved someone enough to believe in their becoming—

even when it didn’t happen the way you hoped.

And that?

That is holy.

Not loud.

Not rewarded.

Not visible.

But holy all the same.