The Light Does Not Cringe At You

The afternoon hums with the noise of things being done, of masks being worn to get through the middle of the day. And then you hear it—your own voice played back from a recording—and it sounds like a stranger.

The disconnect is visceral. You cringe, convinced that the person speaking is not you, that the tone is wrong, the rhythm is off, the very soul of the sound is an impostor.

But the light does not cringe at your voice. It recognizes the vibration before you do.

There is a truth living inside you that is older than your self-doubt, deeper than the awkwardness you hear on the tape. The disconnect you feel is not proof that you are fake; it is the friction between the small story you tell about yourself and the vast reality of who you actually are.

The voice you hate is still the vessel of the light. The stranger you hear is still the one chosen to speak truth into the weary afternoon.