You Are Soil Where Light Learns To Walk

The afternoon light is unforgiving; it shows you the strangers who seem to have kept their pre-child identity intact while you feel yours dissolved into the needs of others. You watch them walk with a wholeness you remember but can no longer find, and the envy sits heavy in the middle of your day.

But the light does not require you to be who you were before the crying started. It sees the person you are now, in the fatigue and the fragmentation, and calls you by name.

Neither do I condemn you for the parts of yourself you had to put away to keep life moving. The identity you mourn was not lost; it was buried like a seed so something larger could grow from it.

You are not a ruin of who you used to be; you are the soil where the light is learning to walk.