Hands Too Heavy to Hold

By Blue Dampf

Lately, I feel like every hand I touch turns to stone.

It’s as if the warmth I mean to offer somehow stiffens into pressure. I reach out wanting to hold, to soothe, to connect. And yet, all I seem to do is solidify what was once soft. They pull away slowly, almost imperceptibly, and I’m left wondering: is it me? Is it my hands?

I’ve always believed love should be felt in the hands. I’ve used them to build affection like a shelter–held cheeks gently in apology, laced fingers like promises, gripped tightly in moments of fear or closeness. But I’m starting to realize: maybe I’ve been holding too tightly. Maybe I’ve mistaken grasping for care. I’ve never known how to offer just enough. I grab like I’m trying to save something. As
if my palm alone could stop someone from leaving, or calm the part of them that never feels safe. I press in, not realizing that sometimes even the softest hands can bruise when they don't know when to let go.

I’ve watched people I cared about slowly calcify beneath my fingertips. When your
comfort becomes someone else’s tension. But I’ve seen the signs, the hesitation before they take my hand, the stillness, the way their own fingers go limp. I’ve watched tenderness freeze.

And the truth is: love should never feel like being held down.

Maybe holding someone in love means knowing when to loosen your grip. That the most beautiful hands in a relationship aren’t the ones that hold on the hardest—but the ones that know when to open.

There's grief in this realization. I thought love was in the giving. I built entire futures in the way I held people. Maybe love isn’t in the taking of hands. Maybe it’s in the offering.