Let Your Jaw Soften Now

The afternoon stretches on, a long, quiet corridor where you hold your face still so no one sees the tremor. You clench your jaw until it aches, building a wall of bone and muscle to keep the truth locked inside your throat.

It feels like survival. It feels like the only way to make it to five o'clock without falling apart.

But the light does not need your silence to stay near you. It is already in the room, sitting in the chair across from your desk, waiting in the hum of the fluorescent lights.

There is a story of a man born blind, asked whose sin caused his darkness. The light said: neither.

It was not a punishment. It was a canvas.

Your ache is not a verdict against you. It is the space where the light is about to do something new.

You do not have to hold the world together with your teeth. The truth you are guarding is already known by the one who made you.

Let your jaw soften. Just a little.

The light can hold what you are afraid to say.