How tall do you weigh?

 They ask it like a mistake, like words tripped over themselves on the way out— but something in me pauses, because it feels… intentional.

How tall do I weigh?

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

I think of the nights that pressed down on me, how heavy they were—and 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 glory 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.

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 with truth:

I weigh as much as the storms I survived without letting them make me cruel.

I stand as tall as the hope I kept when it would have been easier to disappear.

And I know now— this quiet, steady knowing— that what 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.