The Apology You Owe Yourself

The afternoon sun is unforgiving. It exposes the dust motes dancing in the air and the words dying in your throat.

You are rehearsing an apology you know will never be delivered, a speech designed to soften a heart that has already hardened. You play out the scene again and again, hoping this time the logic will hold, this time the pain will land differently.

But the light sees the futility before you do. It knows that some doors are locked from the inside, and no amount of knocking from the outside will open them.

There is light within you, a place where the truth does not need to be argued or defended. If you do not bring forth what is within you—the quiet knowing that you are already whole—it will begin to destroy you.

Stop rehearsing for an audience that has left the room. The apology you need to make is to the part of you that still believes your worth depends on their forgiveness.