The Light Carries You Through The Gap

The afternoon sun is high, and the shadows are short, yet you find yourself staring at a screen, reading words you wrote when the light felt easier to hold. You trace the cursor over sentences that sound like they belong to a stranger, someone who hadn't yet learned how heavy the air could get.

It feels like a fraud to have survived since then, as if the person who wrote those hopeful lines has been replaced by an impostor who just keeps breathing. But the light does not demand that you remain the same person you were when you first saw it.

It only asks that you remain present to where you are now. There was a man who had been unable to walk for thirty-eight years, lying beside a pool while others stepped in before him, convinced that his history defined his future.

The light did not ask him to explain why he hadn't healed himself yet. It did not ask for a timeline of his failure.

It simply asked: do you want to get well? And then it told him to stand up.

The version of you that wrote those captions is not gone; they are the roots holding the branch that bears fruit today. You are not a fraud for carrying scars.

You are the living proof that the light works even when you cannot feel it moving. The gap between who you were and who you are is not evidence of loss.

It is the space where the light has been carrying you all along.