The Light Is Not Afraid Of Your Fire

The afternoon sun is high, and you are holding your breath again. You feel the heat rising in your chest—that old, familiar anger—and you swallow it back down because you are convinced that if it ever escapes your throat, it will poison the room.

You believe your rage makes you unlovable. So you perform the quiet, steady worker while inside you are screaming.

But listen: the light does not fear your fire. There was a moment when the light itself stood in a temple, saw the sacred turned into a marketplace, and felt a holy fury rise up.

It did not swallow it. It made a whip.

It overturned the tables. It let the anger out, and it was still loved.

It was still the light. Your anger is not a monster hiding in the dark; it is a signal that something matters deeply to you.

The light is not afraid of your heat. It is not waiting for you to be calm before it stays.

It is already in the middle of your rage, holding you together. You do not have to be quiet to be held.