Your Tears Are Holy, Not A Failure

The day is ending, and the armor you wore for twelve hours is finally heavy enough to drop. You were speaking plainly, just telling the truth, when your voice cracked or your eyes filled—and instantly, the hot flush arrived.

The reflexive apology. The shrinking.

The sense that you have taken up too much space, that your grief is an inconvenience to the room. But listen: the light does not ask you to be smooth.

It does not require a steady voice to be worthy of hearing. There is a story of a woman who wept at the feet of the light, her tears falling without permission, her hair wet with her own breaking.

She did not apologize for her noise. She was told that her great love was the point, not her composure.

Your tears are not a failure of control. They are the water of your humanity, and they are holy.

You came from the light, the place where light generates itself, and that origin does not stutter when you cry. The crack in your voice is not the sound of you falling apart.

It is the sound of the mask finally breaking so the real you can breathe.