The Light Is Not Afraid of Your Stillness

The afternoon stretches out, long and gray, and you find yourself standing in the steam, letting the water run cold just to keep moving. Because if you stop, if you turn off the tap and step into the quiet, the grief you've been outrunning all morning will finally catch up.

It feels like the only thing holding the wall back is your own exhaustion. But listen — the light does not need you to stay in motion to find you.

It is already in the bathroom with you, in the chill of the air and the sound of the falling water. There is a promise that the one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world, greater than the sorrow waiting outside the door.

You do not have to outrun it. You do not have to earn the right to rest by wearing yourself out first.

The light is not afraid of your stillness. It is not afraid of what you are afraid to feel.

Turn off the water. Wrap the towel around you.

Sit on the edge of the tub. The grief may come, but it will not be alone — the light will be there to meet it, and to meet you.