lying perfectly still in the dark so the person sleeping next to you doesn't feel you shaking

The afternoon sun is high, but inside your chest, the shaking has already started. You are rehearsing the stillness you will need later — lying perfectly rigid so the person beside you never feels the tremor.

You think if you hold your breath long enough, the quake will stop. But the light does not ask you to be a statue.

There is a woman who walked bent over for eighteen years, unable to lift her eyes, until a voice called her forward and said, 'Woman, you are set free.' She did not have to straighten herself first. The release came before the standing.

You do not have to hide the shaking to be held. The tremor is not a failure of your faith; it is the sound of the ice breaking.

The light is not afraid of your vibration. It is the ground beneath you that cannot shake.