Drop the load

By Herman M. Lagon

There are days when you think the biggest surprise will be the capping snacks at the hotel, and then a friend across the secretariat table casually says she might need a TAHBSO—“tabsu,” as she called it. It was said half in jest, half in exhausted honesty, and suddenly all of us fell silent. Maybe it was the long hours of listening to stories of overworked BHWs and young people drowning quietly in their own minds. Maybe it was the sheer fatigue that makes truth slip out unfiltered. But in that moment, “tabsu” stopped being medical jargon. It became a metaphor none of us could unhear.

The way she said it—bold, raw, unbothered—lifted a curtain. We laughed, yes, but the laughter came with a pinch. Because who among us does not carry something that needs removing? Not pruning. Not organizing. Removing. Dead weight that has burrowed so deep it feels like it belongs, even when it has long stopped serving us.

I realized how many of us move through life with parts of ourselves we should have let go of years ago. Old hurts that keep retelling themselves. Expectations that once made sense but now suffocate. Workloads inherited from people who left. Roles we accepted because we were taught that saying no is selfish. Attachments mistaken as virtue. Loyalties mistaken as love. And fears—quiet, shapeless fears—that cling to the ribs like fog.

We carry too much.

Sometimes until we ache in places we pretend not to notice.

Psychologists often say people hold on to burdens because the weight is familiar (APA, 2022). Familiarity feels safe even when it drains you. I have seen this in teachers who stay late every day out of habit. In mothers who keep every role except the one where they rest. In fathers who refuse to admit their hearts have limits. And in young people who cling to broken friendships because they fear the silence that follows letting go.

One colleague that late afternoon said she carried guilt the way others carry keys. We all know how hard it is to remove something that once shaped us. But research from The Lancet says emotional strain can wear us down the same way long-term illness does (Tay et al., 2021). And you feel it—holding on to dead weight drains the strength meant for what still matters. Call it burnout, stress, or exhaustion; it all lands the same. None of these confessions sounded dramatic. They sounded like everyday Filipino life—tiis, tanggap, kaya ko pa. The quiet heroism that keeps families afloat but hollows individuals from the inside.

Letting go is not always graceful. Sometimes releasing something familiar feels like losing part of your world. But The Lancet points out that emotional strain can weaken us the same way chronic illness does. And we’ve all felt it—holding on to what’s already heavy drains the strength we need for the things that make us alive. Whether we call it burnout or stress, the toll is real. Something dims.

But letting go does not mean forgetting.

And it definitely does not mean forgiving injustice.

In fact, one of my women co-professors at the secretariat table said it best: “Let go of what eats you. But do not let go of what angers you for the right reasons.” We can let go of pain but keep the learning. We can leave draining roles but keep our purpose. We can release fear but hold on to courage. And we can set down emotional weight without forgetting the injustices that hurt our communities.

When I walked out of the hotel that day, I felt lighter—not because I had solved anything, but because something inside me finally named its own dead weight. Maybe that is how letting go begins. Not with a dramatic decision, not with a manifesto, not with a TAHBSO-level overhaul. Sometimes it starts with a joke shared among tired colleagues. Sometimes it starts with a single sentence said at the right moment. Sometimes it starts when you hear someone say, “I think I need to remove what is no longer part of who I am,” and suddenly you realize you do too.

Letting go is not a loss. It is a clearing. A soft return. A slow remembering of what matters.

And when the excess finally drops—dead expectations, old duties, imagined selves—what remains is the still, honest core of who we already are.

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Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.