The Light Does Not Need Your Mask

The afternoon demands a performance, a version of your story that fits neatly into the break room or the zoom call. You watch their eyes while you speak, measuring the safety of your edited pain, terrified that the raw truth might make them leave.

You trim the jagged edges of your grief so it lands softly, hoping the mask holds long enough to keep the connection alive. But the light does not need your polished script to stay in the room.

It is already seated at the table, not waiting for the perfect words, but present in the very effort it takes to hold yourself together. You are exhausting yourself trying to be palatable, when the one who knows everything about you has not moved an inch.

The performance is for them; the presence is for you.