There was once a woman in a long procession of travellers.
Each day, she walked beside them. They crossed valleys and climbed hills and moved steadily toward a distant place they all believed in. She wore the same colours as the others. Walked at the same pace. Carried what she could.
But there was something different about her.
In one of her shoes, there was a small stone.
It wasn’t visible. It wasn’t dramatic. It made no sound. But with every step, it pressed harder. It made her walk slower. It made her wince. And though she said nothing at first, eventually she told one of the guides.
“There is a stone in my shoe,” she said. “It hurts when I walk.”.
The guide looked down, frowned, and replied, “Everyone has their challenges. Most people manage. Maybe if you focused more on the path and less on the discomfort, you’d keep up.”
She tried. She really did. She tried harder than she ever had. But the stone didn’t go away. And no one looked. No one asked to see the shoe. No one helped her remove it.
Years later, another traveller began to limp.
They paused. Took off their shoe. Looked inside. And there, tucked beneath the insole, was a small, sharp stone.
They took it out. And they walked easily again.
No one asked where the stone came from. No one remembered the woman who had walked before them. But the stone remained, until someone cared enough to look.
☕ If you’ve found something here that resonates, you can support my work:
