The Light Before the Wound

The day is ending, and the armor you wore all afternoon finally hits the floor. You hear your child laugh while recounting a happy memory with the one who broke you, and you force your face to stay neutral — a mask of calm over a storm of betrayal.

But the light does not ask you to keep holding that weight now that the sun has gone down. It came into your midst not to judge your performance, but to restore every nature to its root — to the place where you were whole before the wound ever happened.

You are not defined by the silence you keep at the dinner table. You are a drop from the light, sent here with a purpose that no betrayal can erase.

The exhale is not an admission of defeat; it is the moment you remember that the light was inside you before the pain started, and it remains there now.