The Gentle Giant

It was junior year, Mrs. Harmon’s class. I was hiding behind a worn out copy of Of Mice and Men, doing everything I could to hide the tears that were welling up. There was something about Lenny—big, gentle Lenny—that got to me as I read through the pages. I didn’t quite know why at the time. I just knew I understood him.

If you’ve not read it, Lenny is a gentle giant—a big man with an even bigger heart. But, his mind doesn’t quite match his strength. He has this intense desire to care for things, from soft animals to the people he loves, but his own strength and enthusiasm often work against him.

“I didn’t mean no harm, George.“

All Lenny wants is to hold things he loves close, but he doesn’t know his own strength. In one of the most well-known scenes, he kills a mouse he keeps in his pocket, holding it too tightly without realizing it. “I didn’t mean no harm, George,” he says to his friend. It’s Lenny’s constant reply. It cuts deep because he truly doesn’t mean any harm.

Lenny’s dreams are simple but profound, and they all hinge on a future where he can be close to things he loves without causing harm. He and his friend George talk about it endlessly: “An’ live off the fatta the lan’,” Lenny says, eyes bright with a childlike joy, picturing a life where he has space to love without hurting. But, Lenny doesn’t see his own impact. He doesn’t realize how his strength can overwhelm the things he most wants to love.

Being a “Gentle Giant”

I think what gets me is that Lenny doesn’t mean to cause pain; he’s just trying to show up in the best way he knows how. This image of Lenny holding too tight has stuck with me, resurfacing over the years as I’ve grown into my own version of a “gentle giant.” I’ve always been big—big frame, big heart, big feelings. When I care about someone, it shows.

My instincts are to dive right in. If something matters to someone I value, it matters to me, too. I want to be right there—helping out, making things happen, and being part of it all. But over the years, I’ve noticed that my way of showing up, much like Lenny’s, can sometimes be a bit too much. It’s like my presence alone has a weight I don’t always see, and in my eagerness, I end up bulldozing into situations where I only meant to lend a hand.

For a long time, I didn’t question it. I thought if I meant well, if I had good intentions, that was all that mattered. But there was a moment—a quiet, almost unremarkable one—where I realized that my “help” was coming across as pressure. I could see it in someone’s face who I love dearly, and in that moment, it hit me: I was adding weight, not relief. Like Lenny, I just wanted to hold close what mattered to me, but my hands were too heavy. I wasn’t helping; I was smothering.

I’m still learning how to navigate this gentle giant dilemma. I’m trying to show up in ways that are meaningful without being overwhelming, finding that balance between being present and giving space. It’s a lesson Lenny never quite learned, and his story haunts me for that reason. His love and care were so big, but they didn’t always come across in the way he intended.

The truth is, being big-hearted can be complicated. Showing up doesn’t always mean taking the lead, nor does it mean being front and center. Sometimes, it means waiting in the wings, ready but not imposing. It means being there for the people you care about in a way that doesn’t overshadow or overburden. And maybe, sometimes, it means taking a step back, so they feel your presence without feeling your weight.

For anyone else who feels like they might be “too much” sometimes, maybe you’ll relate. Sometimes, showing love isn’t about doing everything; it’s about giving the people you’d do anything for room to breath and space to trust that you’re there for them no matter what.

But Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes of mice and men
Go oft awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

Still you are blessed, compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

— To A Mouse by Robert Burns