Walking Bags of Hurt

The more I open my eyes, the more I see the scars of deep sorrow. Pain wears the masks of friends and coworkers. They travel wearily with heavy footsteps — walking bags of hurt.

Brown paper bags held together by shadows.


Yet no one escapes difficulties, troubles, and trials. No one is spared anguish or hardship as overwhelming lessons are learned.

Will you see for yourself?

The woman who just cut you off on the highway? Hurting.

The young man who delivered the pizza? Broke, yes. Yet broken.

The child running around the playground? Missing her daddy, whom she visits twice a month.

The nice old man next door? Widower. Ignored by his children.

Your boss? Numb from alcohol and other distractions.


Unraveling fast.

You feel like no one has noticed, but we have. You try to keep it hidden inside despite how much worse it makes you feel. Still your pride forces you to isolated misery in the dark corner.

In some areas you are strong and confident. In others you are a helpless infant, crying from fear and lack of trust and hopelessness.

The rest of us are the same. We also struggle and fall.

You are simply not aware of when or how. Not yet.

Remembering this allows you empathy for each walking bag of hurt you find, each person screaming silently in thin skin.

Knowing this, how will you treat others?