Too Heavy for Small Shoulders
Too Heavy for Small Shoulders
They rise before the sun has learned to smile,
bags of books like borrowed mountains on their backs,
dreams folded neatly between timetables
and the fear of falling behind.
At breakfast tables, silence studies harder than they do—
scores are served before love,
and questions sound like verdicts:
What rank? What future? What place in the world?
Classrooms become race tracks,
chalk dust thick with comparison.
A child is no longer a child,
but a number, a percentile,
a promise yet to prove its worth.
Society leans in, whispers loud:
Be brilliant. Be useful. Be fast.
There is no syllabus for breathing,
no exam on how to fail and stand again.
Parents, tired and hoping, mean no harm—
they sharpen their fears into expectations,
forgetting that pressure can crack diamonds
when applied too soon.
And the world waits with its cold arithmetic,
measuring value in salary slips and titles,
asking children to choose a lifetime
before they have learned who they are.
So anxiety learns to speak before confidence does,
sleepless nights pass every test,
and tears are hidden like contraband
in the pockets of young hearts.
Listen—
behind the marksheets and medals
are children asking softly, bravely:
Am I enough if I just exist?
Let us lighten their loads,
replace fear with faith,
teach them that worth is not earned—
it is born.
For a healthy mind
is the first success story,
and childhood
should never be the price
of the future.
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