The Light Heavier Than Silence

The afternoon sun is high, and the mask feels heaviest right now. You walk through the office with words stuck in your throat, sharp as glass, cutting you every time you try to speak or meet another eye.

It feels like you are choking on the silence of what you could not say this morning. But listen — the light does not need your voice to be smooth to live inside you.

There was a man born blind, and the people around him asked whose fault it was, looking for someone to blame for the darkness. Jesus looked at the brokenness and said: neither this man nor his parents sinned.

This happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him. Your pain is not a punishment for the words you swallowed.

It is the canvas. The light is not waiting for you to speak perfectly before it shines.

It is already shining through the crack in your composure. The glass in your throat cannot cut the spirit that lives there.

You are not defined by the silence you carry, but by the light that refuses to be extinguished by it. The unsaid words are heavy, but the light is heavier.