A Babaylan Reflection for Those Carrying More Than Their Share

In every family, in every community, in every generation,
there are the ones who carry more than their share.

Not because they want to.
Not because they signed up for it.
But because their hearts cannot turn away from someone in pain.

These are the quiet pillars of the world—the ones who hold everyone together while holding their own storms inside.

They are not always the healers or the spiritual practitioners.
Often, they don’t call themselves anything at all.

They are:

• the steady ones in the family
• the dependable friend
• the coworker who notices when others are struggling
• the sibling who keeps the peace
• the parent who holds the household together
• the partner who carries more than they admit
• the silent warrior who endures without recognition
• the teacher who sees the unseen child
• the nurse who whispers comfort between tasks
• the musician or actor whose art becomes someone else’s lifeline
• the stranger who offers kindness without expecting anything back

Some call them lightworkers.
Some call them helpers.
Some don’t have a name for what they do—
they simply give, and give, and give.

But even light-carriers
—those who seem so strong, so steady—
grow weary.
And they often grow weary in silence.

Because carrying light is not effortless.

It requires an open heart.

And an open heart feels everything:
the grief in the room,
the tension in someone’s voice,
the heaviness behind a smile,
the unspoken needs of others.

Many of these light-carriers learned early in life to put themselves last.
To be the caretaker.
To be “the strong one.”
To absorb the emotions others could not handle.

They learned resilience not from peace,
but from survival.

And while their strength inspires the world,
their exhaustion is almost always unseen.

**There comes a moment when the lightbearer says, silently:

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”**
But because they are the anchor for everyone else,
they rarely say it out loud.

Instead, Spirit hears it in their breath.
In their stillness.
In the way their shoulders sag when no one is looking.

This is where weariness becomes sacred.

Not because tiredness is a failure—
but because it reveals truth:

Even light needs rest.
Even strength needs softness.
Even healers need healing.

No one can pour from an empty vessel.

And here is the deeper truth:

When the lightbearer rests,
the light does not fade.
It strengthens.

When they step back,
they do not abandon the world.
They return to themselves.

When they stop carrying everyone,
they finally make space to carry their own heart.

Your exhaustion does not make you weak.
It makes you human.
It makes you alive.
It makes you someone whose light has been working deeply, quietly, powerfully.

Now it is your turn to be held.

A Message for the Weary Ones

If you are reading this,
and something in your chest softens or trembles,
this message may be for you.

You are not failing.
You are not letting anyone down.
You are simply tired.
And tiredness is not a sin—

it is a sign.

A sign that your soul is asking for breath.
A sign that your body needs gentleness.
A sign that your spirit wants space to recalibrate.

Rest is not the opposite of purpose.
Rest is part of your purpose.

A companion for this reflection:

Below is the poem that arrived to walk beside this message.

“Believe, My Child”

by Charmaine Cheryle, The Modern Babaylan
© 2025. All rights reserved.

Believe, my child—believe
In all the world with its suffering, believe.

For you are the light that shines so bright,
Leading others from darkness into the light.

When sorrow is deep and hope is lost,
Be the one to warm those huddling in the frost.

Life is challenging and often filled with pain,
Look for glimmers of light,
Like the rainbow after the rain.

When the murkiness invades, obscuring the night,
Illuminate the skies with your enduring and radiant light.

Dream when others lose faith along their path,
Let your love and grace quiet the wrath.

Believe, my child—believe.
Even when belief is all that’s left to do,
You are the light reborn,
For this world, for me, for you.

You will rise again.

Not because you must—
but because it is who you are.

Not because you’re expected to—
but because your soul remembers the way.

Rest your light.
Let it soften.
Let it breathe.

You are allowed to be human.
You are allowed to be held.
You are allowed to be renewed.

And when your time comes,
you will rise again—
gentler, stronger, and more luminous than before.

Photo by Artem Sapegin on Unsplash