Title: The Weight Of What I Tried To Swallow Poem by ashok jadhav

(The speaker stands alone, shoulders heavy, breath uneven. Papers, tools, or symbols of duty lie scattered. A long pause before speaking.)
I thought strength meant saying yes.
Yes to every demand.
Yes to every expectation.
Yes to every burden they were too tired—or too afraid—to carry themselves.
I mistook ambition for courage.
I mistook exhaustion for dedication.
And in my hunger to prove myself, I bit… and bit… and bit—
until I bit off more than I could chew.
At first, it tasted sweet.
Responsibility always does, in the beginning.
It flatters you.
It whispers, "You are capable. You are needed. You are important."
And I believed it.
I believed I could carry the weight of many lives on a single spine.
I believed my hands were endless, my time infinite, my will unbreakable.
So I took it all.
Their work.
Their worries.
Their failures.
Their unspoken hopes.
I stacked them on my back like trophies,
never noticing how my knees began to shake.
They applauded me.
They called me reliable.
Strong.
Essential.
And every compliment pushed me deeper into the lie
that I could do everything—
that asking for help was weakness,
that stopping was surrender.
But the truth does not shout.
It waits.
It waits until the nights grow longer than the days.
Until sleep becomes a stranger.
Until your breath feels borrowed and your heartbeat feels rushed.
It waits until your hands tremble while pretending to be steady.
And then—
it lets you choke.
Because this is what happens
when you bite off more than you can chew:
the jaw locks.
The throat tightens.
And suddenly, what once fed your pride
begins to suffocate your spirit.
I tried to swallow anyway.
I forced it down with clenched teeth and silent tears.
I told myself, "Just one more task. One more promise. One more sacrifice."
But the weight did not shrink.
Only I did.
I began to disappear beneath my own responsibilities.
The mirror showed someone older, smaller, hollowed out by duty.
I carried the world so long
I forgot how it felt to stand upright.
And the cruelest truth?
When I finally stumbled, when my strength cracked—
they did not fall with me.
The burdens I carried were never truly mine.
They simply rested on my back
because I never learned to say no.
So here I stand, mouth empty, hands shaking,
finally understanding what wisdom tried to teach me gently—
that capacity has limits,
that courage includes restraint,
that responsibility without balance becomes self-destruction.
I did not fail because I was weak.
I failed because I believed I had to be strong all the time.
Now, I choose differently.
I will measure the size of my bite.
I will chew slowly.
I will carry only what is mine to carry.
And when the weight grows heavy,
I will set it down—
without shame.
(Straightens, breath steadying.)
Let them call it retreat.
Let them call it selfishness.
I call it survival.
Because I have learned—
too late, perhaps, but not too late to live—
that no one wins
by biting off more than they can chew.
(Lights fade.)