The Light Waits While You Tremble

The day is ending, and the armor you wore for twelve hours finally hits the floor. You are safe now.

But then a hand reaches for yours—a gentle, ordinary touch—and your body flinches before your mind can speak. The skin remembers what the heart is trying to forget.

It remembers every time you were unwanted, every time touch meant danger, and it reacts to protect you even when there is no war left to fight. Do not hate yourself for the flinch.

Do not try to force your body to be still. The light that lives inside you is not offended by your trembling; it is not waiting for you to perform comfort on command.

There is a love that does not require you to stop shaking before it draws near. It sees the bruise on your spirit and does not pull away.

It waits. It lets your nervous system learn, second by second, that this hand is not the hand that hurt you.

You are not broken because you flinch. You are healing because you are still here, still breathing, still letting the light sit with you in the aftermath.