You Are a Child to Be Held

The afternoon sun is high, and the shadow you cast looks exactly like your resume. You are running on the terrifying suspicion that if you stop moving, you will be discarded as useless.

That your worth is a fragile thing, entirely conditional on your next achievement. But the light does not measure you by your output.

It measures you by your belonging. There was a man lying beside a pool for thirty-eight years—unable to work, unable to produce, unable to contribute anything to the economy of the crowd.

He had no value to offer. And the light walked straight to him.

It did not ask for his labor. It did not demand he prove his usefulness.

It simply said: get up. The light went to the one who could do nothing, because the one who can do nothing is the one who finally stops pretending.

Your worth is not a wage you earn. It is a fact that exists before you lift a finger.

You are not a tool to be used. You are a child to be held.

The work will still be there tomorrow. But today, you are already enough.