How tall do you weigh?

 They ask it like it might be a mistake. Like words tripped over themselves on the way out. But something in me pauses, because it feels almost intentional.

How tall do I weigh?

I think of the years I’ve carried. They're stacked quietly inside my spine, each lesson adds an inch no mirror could ever measure.

I think of the nights that were pressed down on me. At how heavy they were. How I learned to stand anyway, even when standing felt like breaking.

Though outwardly, I have bent and thinned in places, something unseen has been building. “Inwardly renewed, day by day,” as if the weight itself were shaping Holy too heavy for the eyes to hold.

If height is what I’ve grown through, and weight is what I’ve carried, then maybe the question is not wrong at all.

How tall do I weigh?

Maybe they are asking, "How much have you endured to become who you are?" "How high have you risen despite the gravity of your life?''

So I answer, not with numbers. But in truth:

I weigh as heavily as the storms I survived without letting them drown me.

I stand as tall as the hope I keep when it would be easier to disappear.

And I know. This quiet, steady knowing. All that I carry is not here to crush me, but to anchor me.

To root me deeper than fear could ever reach.

And I am still growing. Not upward, not outward. But inward, where no scale can measure, and no ruler can reach.