The Light Waits Behind Your Mask

The engine is off, but the silence in the car feels louder than the road ever was. You sit with your hands on the wheel, rehearsing the lines you will say when you open the door, practicing a smile that does not match the ache in your chest.

You are trying to hide the falling apart so the ones you love won't worry. But listen — the light does not need your performance to enter the house.

It was already there before you parked, waiting not for your mask but for your presence. You do not have to hold it together for the light to hold you.

The dawn is not asking you to be strong; it is simply asking you to come inside. You are more loved in your brokenness than you could ever be in your act.