The Light Sitting With Your Tremor

The afternoon sun is high, but your body still remembers the storm. A voice rises across the room, sharp and sudden, and before your mind can catch up, your muscles are already bracing for a blow that isn't coming.

You are safe now, yet the flinch happens anyway. It feels like a betrayal of your own healing, a sign that you are still broken.

But the light does not scold the bruised reed for bending when the wind blows. It knows that your nerves are speaking an old language, one learned in a house where love had teeth.

The body keeps the score long after the war is over. Yet notice this: the flinch is not the end of the story.

It is just the first movement. The light that lives inside you is louder than the echo of that old fear.

It does not demand that you stop shaking instantly. It simply sits with you in the tremor, reminding you that the hand raised against you then is not the hand reaching for you now.

You are not back there. You are here, in the middle of the day, and the light is holding you steady even when your knees want to buckle.