To the Stranger at Target Who Said I've Got My Hands Full

You meant it kindly. I could tell by the head tilt. You said it like a diagnosis, though, and I've heard it forty times this month.

Yes. My hands are full. So is the rest of me. My heart most of all.

What I wanted to say back: Full? This is the carry-on. You should see what I checked.

What I actually did was smile and find the goldfish before the meltdown hit aisle 9.

My hands have been full for two years, and I've gotten strong in a way I never asked to.

I can carry a sleeping four-year-old, two bags, and a gallon of milk up three flights without setting anything down. I no longer need a gym membership. My arms are made of steel. I can run bath, dinner, and a work email in the same forty minutes. I multitask better than any CEO I've worked with.

Nobody trains for this. You just become it.

I won't pretend it's all strength. Some nights my hands are full and shaking.

The full hands are the easy part to see. The full chest, the full head at 11 p.m., the calendar I hold for three people with nobody holding it for me. That's the part the comment misses.

So next time, maybe skip the hands-full line. Try this one: You're doing a hard thing. Want me to grab you a cart?

And if you're the one with the full hands reading this, half-smiling at a stranger who has no idea:

I see you. Your hands are full because you didn't put anyone or anything down. That's something to be proud of.