Drop the armor and run home

The day is ending, and the armor you wore to hold it all together is finally heavy enough to drop. You have been staying in a place that is slowly breaking you, telling yourself that endurance is the same thing as love.

But the light does not ask you to shrink until you disappear. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He did not wait for the apology or the rehearsed speech — he ran. Before the words could even form, he was already there, arms open.

You do not have to earn your way back to safety. The door is not locked from the inside.

It is waiting for you to turn the handle and walk out of the breaking. The light is not in the cage you built to keep yourself safe.

It is on the road where you are brave enough to leave.