What do you carry that you don’t name?

Last week, a client handed me their gloves after the summit. Said they’d been wearing them since before the climb started. I didn’t ask why. They weren’t worn—just folded tight in a pocket. I still have them. Not for warmth. For the weight of something not spoken. I keep thinking: what’s the thing we carry that we don’t name? Not grief, not fear—something quieter. Something we don’t know how to call by its real name.