I asked myself as I knelt on the grass at Washburn University, picking up a fortune’s worth of law books that had just spilled from a torn plastic bag.

It was orientation day at law school — and it felt like everything in my life was unraveling.

My dad had just been told he did not have long to live. My brother was in a Kansas City ICU with a condition we didn’t yet understand. My mom needed me to drive her to and from various hospitals. And to round it out, I had just been dumped.

As I drove that early morning from Leavenworth to Topeka, I repeated something my parents always told me: God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. That morning, it felt like a lie.

As I entered my orientation classroom, I realized I didn’t know a soul. I slumped into a seat in the back, pulled my ball cap over my eyes, and tried to catch a few minutes of rest. I had barely slept for weeks.

Suddenly, a rapping on my desk startled me.

It was a diminutive older man in a worn brown suit. “You might want to get up for this,” he said. Sure enough, it was my professor.

My professor didn’t mince words. “Law school,” he told us, “is all-consuming. You will be expected to have already read and understood all of the material prior to class, and that includes the first day. You can be randomly questioned about the material in every class. And that includes the first day — so better get your books!”

Following class, everyone rushed to the bookstore as if the doors had just opened to the best Black Friday sale you could imagine.

You have to recall that this was long before digital textbooks or next-day shipping.

I wrestled through the crowds to grab what I could. I loaded two plastic bags with case books and began the long walk to my car — nearly half a mile away.

At first, the books were heavy, but manageable. I watched other classmates with carts. Others pulled their cars close. I had neither.

As I pushed forward, with each step, those books grew heavier. Once manageable, those books began to feel like I was carrying the weight of the world.

Suddenly, one bag gave out. Then the other.

My new books tumbled into the damp grass.

I stood there, stunned. People passed me by without offering any help. I don’t know they meant to be rude–just like me, they had their heads down, their loads to carry.

Still, in that moment, I felt completely alone.

And when I realized no one was coming to help, I also realized I didn’t need them to.

I picked up the books. Took a breath. Carried them a few steps. When they got too heavy, I set them down, rested, and picked them up again.

I did that all the way to my car.

And I’ve been doing the same thing ever since.

Today, I’m the County Attorney in Leavenworth. I work with cases most people hope they never have to hear about–murders, child abuse, sexual violence, exploitation of the vulnerable. These cases cross my desk and fill my daily conversations. Every day, I analyze and scrutinize events that haunt people for the rest of their lives. Their trauma becomes my job, my fight to bring them justice — or at least peace.

But like everyone else, I still have kids to pick up, a yard to mow, laundry, and dishes to do. Life doesn’t stop just because the work is heavy.

Over time, I’ve learned something simple but powerful: what breaks you isn’t the weight itself — it’s believing you have to carry it all at once.

Everyone carries something. Maybe it’s grief, medical bills, night shifts, parenting alone, addiction, or those quiet battles no one sees. And no matter who you are, you’ll reach a moment where you think, I can’t carry this.

But you can.

You just need to give yourself permission to set it down for a moment, take a breath, and pick it back up when you’re ready. You’ll be stronger for it.

That’s how we move forward.

— Todd Thompson is Leavenworth County Attorney.