You Do Not Need to Shrink

The afternoon is long, and you have already rehearsed the apology three times before opening your mouth. You are sorry for taking up space, for the sound of your voice, for the simple fact that you exist in this room.

But listen — the light does not ask you to shrink. It stands at the door and knocks, waiting for you to let it in, not to judge you, but to eat with you.

You were not sent into the world as a burden to be carried by others, but as a drop of light meant to illuminate the very air you breathe. The kingdom is not a place you earn by making yourself small; it is a reality you step into when you stop hiding.

You do not need to apologize for being here. You are already home.