Safe Even With The Window Down

The car is your sanctuary, but the cracked window feels like a betrayal. You roll it down just enough to breathe, then freeze, eyes darting to the office entrance, praying no coworker walks past to see you crying in the driver's seat.

You are performing okayness before you even reach the door. You wear the mask because the world expects it, but the mask is suffocating the very air you need.

The light does not wait for you to compose your face. It meets you in the stall, in the car, in the raw and unpolished moment before the performance begins.

You do not have to hide the tears to be held by God. The One who sees you through the glass is not shocked by your grief.

He is not waiting for you to wipe your eyes before He calls you friend. You are safe here, even with the window down.

The struggle is not that you are falling apart; it is that you think you must hide the pieces.