The Leg Iron

There is a leg iron attached to you. You try to run. But you can’t. Every step drags metal against bone, weight against skin, until your feet feel like they’re breaking. Still...you try. It hurts. God, it’s heavy. Sometimes you even think, Maybe if you cut your own feet off you could finally be free. But people stop you. They look at you and say “There’s nothing there.” They say you’re imagining it. That you’re exaggerating. That you’re manipulating people. Others say they understand. They say they’re there for you. Some tell you to just pray harder. You pull at it. You fight it. You twist your body against the cold iron. But it won’t move. You’re tired. None of them feel how it pulls you back every time you try to move forward. None of them feel the numbness when the weight becomes so heavy you can’t even feel your own legs anymore. Then one day, someone looks at you differently. The professionals say “Yes. There is a leg iron attached to you.” And you breathe out a sigh you didn’t realize you’d been holding for years. Finally. Someone sees it. Someone believes you. Maybe… someone can help. So you listen. You follow the instructions. You crawl through the pain telling yourself, Maybe one day you’ll run again. So you try. Again. And again. And again. Until something inside you quietly breaks. You stop trying to remove the leg iron. You stop dreaming about running. Now you only hope to take one step forward. Just one. Even if the iron never leaves. You cry. You snap. You stare into empty spaces like you’re looking for something that forgot how to exist. Sometimes you smile. But peace? Peace never shows up. And you start to wonder... Where is the freedom you’ve been fighting for? Eventually, you stop. You sit down. Too tired to move. Too tired to fight. Then someone stands beside you. He doesn’t ask questions. He just sits down. Your eyes are dull. Heavy. But he smiles. And you don’t want to be a burden. So slowly... you stand up again. “Baby steps,” they say. You can’t run. But you can walk. So you take one step. Then another. The iron is still there. Still heavy. But he walks beside you. At your pace. If you stumble, he won’t let you fall. If you need to rest, he sits beside you. Sometimes moving forward reopens wounds you thought had already healed. But he stays. While you clean them. While you breathe through the pain. The iron never disappeared. It’s still there. Still heavy. But step by step, you move forward. And this time… you’re not alone.