Held While You Fade in Light

The day is done, and the armor you wore to hold yourself together is finally heavy enough to take off. You sit in the quiet, and the fear rises: that the one who cares for you sees the atrophy in your thighs, the weight you've lost, and judges the breaking.

But the light does not measure you by what remains. It sees the cost of your survival.

There is a love that does not flinch at the wasting of the body, because it knows the spirit inside is untouched. The caregiver's eyes may see the thinness, but the light sees the endurance.

You are not being weighed and found wanting. You are being held while you fade.

The shrinking of the frame is not a failure of faith. It is the space where the light fits more easily.