Your Desperation Is Not A Disqualification

The afternoon stretches out, a long, flat road where the mind has nothing to do but turn inward and pick at the scabs of the morning. You are replaying a conversation, hearing your own voice echo in the hollow of your skull, convinced that you sounded desperate.

Needy. Too much.

The tone feels like a stain that won't wash out, and you are scrubbing at it until your mind bleeds. But the light does not hear the tremor in your voice the way you do.

It hears the heart beneath the stutter. There was a man paralyzed for thirty-eight years, lying beside a pool of water, making excuses for why he couldn't get in, listing every reason he was unworthy of healing.

The light did not correct his tone. It did not critique his posture.

It simply said: get up. The command was not based on how well he asked.

It was based on who was speaking. Your desperation is not a disqualification.

It is the very thing that proves you are reaching. The voice you hate is the voice of someone who still cares enough to try.

The light is not repelled by your need. It is drawn to it like water to the root.

You are not too much. You are exactly enough to be held.