The Light Leans In To Catch You

It is late, and the house is quiet enough that you finally heard your own voice on the recording. You flinched.

It sounded small, childish, like a stranger wearing your name. In the dark, the gap between who you think you are and who you sound like feels like a canyon.

But listen — the light does not require a voice that sounds grown-up to hear you. It heard the cry of the bleeding woman who only touched a hem.

It heard the stutter of the man who could barely speak. The voice you hate is the very one the light leans in to catch.

You do not need to sound impressive to be held. The smallness you hear is not proof of your inadequacy; it is the sound of a child who is safe enough to finally stop performing.

The light is not waiting for a sermon. It is waiting for you.