Something is trying to move through you.
Not from you. Through you. Love, kindness, peace, generosity, hope — these things do not originate with any of us. We did not manufacture them. We received them. From somewhere, from someone, at some point in our lives, something good passed through another person and landed on us.
And now it is looking for somewhere to go.
That is what a conduit does. It does not generate what flows through it. It carries what has already been given — and passes it on. A pipe does not create water. It simply determines how much gets through.
You are a pipe.
The question is what size you have chosen to be.
Some people are wide open. You feel it when you are around them. Something moves in their presence — warmth, safety, an inexplicable sense that you are seen and welcome. They are not performing kindness. They are not working hard to be generous. They have simply removed whatever was blocking the flow. And so what moves through them moves freely, and everyone around them feels it.
Others are almost closed. Not because they have nothing to give. But because something narrowed them over time. Disappointment. Betrayal. The accumulated weight of giving and not receiving. The quiet decision, made so gradually they didn't notice it, to open a little less each time.
And so the flow slows. And the people around them feel that too.
Here is the cost nobody talks about.
A blocked conduit does not just stop the flow outward. It backs up. Whatever cannot move through you does not simply disappear — it sits. Bitterness that was supposed to pass through as forgiveness. Grief that was supposed to pass through as empathy. Anger that was supposed to pass through as honesty. When it has nowhere to go, it stays. And it changes the quality of everything else inside.
The narrower the conduit, the more it costs the carrier.
You were not designed to hold this. You were designed to move it.
And here is the other thing about conduits — they do not choose what is worthy of passing through. A pipe does not decide which drops of water deserve to arrive. It simply carries what it is given, to wherever it is going. Some of what flows through you will go to people you feel deserve it. Some will go to people you are not sure about. Some will go to people who have hurt you, disappointed you, taken more than they gave.
The conduit does not decide. It just opens.
That is the practice. Not grand gestures. Not waiting until you feel generous enough or healed enough or rested enough. Just the daily, quiet decision to stay a little more open than you were yesterday.
To let a little more through.
Because somewhere at the end of what flows through you, there is a person who needed exactly what you were carrying.
And they will never know your name.
But they will feel that you were open.