You Do Not Have to Apologize

The afternoon sun is bright, and it makes the mask you wear feel heavy. You are already rehearsing the apology you will whisper before you even speak your need.

You think you must say you are sorry for taking up space, for having a request, for being a burden in the middle of someone else's busy day. But listen to the truth that walks beside you in this long, ordinary hour: there is a fountain of living water springing up inside you that was placed there long before you learned to beg.

You do not have to apologize for your thirst. The light does not need your permission to flow.

It is already rising, quiet and steady, beneath the weight of your shame. You were sent here not to shrink, but to illuminate the very ground you are standing on.