The Light That Calls Your Wreckage Home

It is the middle of the day, and the weight of holding up that smile begins to crack your ribs. You are terrified that if you finally stop performing, the world will see the wreckage behind your eyes and turn away.

But remember the scene of the woman who bled for twelve years, hiding in the crowd, too ashamed to be seen—she reached for the hem of a garment and the light stopped everything to call her 'daughter.' You do not need to be whole to be held; the light is not repelled by your brokenness, it is gathered by it. There is a secret name written on a white stone that no one else knows, a name that does not depend on your ability to look okay.

— You are not defined by the smile you wear, but by the light that remains when it falls. The light sees the wreckage and calls it home.