When Your Words Feel Hollow at Night

It is three in the morning, and the script has run out. You sit with a friend who is breaking open, and you feel like a fraud because the words you offer feel hollow, rehearsed, empty of the warmth they need.

You think you have failed them because you cannot manufacture empathy from a dry well. But the light does not require your performance.

There is a truth that lives in us, and it will be with us forever, even when our own hearts feel like stone. You are not the source of the comfort; you are merely the vessel carrying it.

When you have nothing left to give, the light gives itself through the silence, through the sitting, through the simple act of not walking away. The hollowness you feel is not the absence of love; it is the space where the light moves without your interference.