For a long time, I walked through life carrying a backpack full of invisible stones.
Every harsh word, every disappointment, every failure—I picked it up, placed it inside, and kept walking. I didn’t question it. I thought it was normal.
But Buddhism teaches something that feels almost too simple:
Suffering isn’t caused by pain.
Suffering is caused by holding on to what hurts.
When I first heard this, it felt like someone accusing me of manufacturing my own misery. But I later realized something uncomfortable: they were right.
I wasn’t just experiencing pain—I was replaying it.
I wasn’t just facing difficulty—I was clinging to it.
I wasn’t just hurt—I was keeping the wound open myself.
The Buddha compared this to being shot by an arrow, and then—out of ignorance—shooting yourself with a second one. The first arrow is life. The second arrow is your reaction, your rumination, your attachment.
I shot myself with second arrows all the time.
I held onto grudges.
I repeated painful memories.
I carried the expectation that life “should” be easier.
And every time I held on, the backpack grew heavier.
Then I tried something different: I watched my thoughts without grabbing them.
A negative memory? Let it pass.
A painful emotion? Let it rise and fall.
A criticism? Let it touch me without defining me.
And somehow, without effort, the backpack grew lighter.
Not because life became easier,
but because I stopped making it harder.
Buddhism doesn’t ask me to be perfect.
It asks me to stop clutching what hurts.
To let go not because I’m weak,
but because I’m finally strong enough to put the burden down.
The stones were never the problem.
The problem was believing I had to carry them.