The Light Is Already in the Passenger Seat

The engine is off, but the silence inside this car is louder than the day ever was. You sit with your hand on the door handle, paralyzed by the distance between the driveway and the front door.

It feels like miles. It feels like a chasm between the person you are out here and the person they expect you to be in there.

The light does not ask you to perform okayness for the people waiting inside. It does not demand that you fix your face before you walk through the threshold.

There was a woman who spent twelve years bleeding in a crowd, certain she was too broken to be touched, too unclean to be seen. She did not clean herself up first.

She did not wait until she was whole. She simply reached out from her hollow place and touched the edge of the light.

And the light stopped. It turned.

It called her daughter. Your exhaustion is not a barrier to love.

It is the very place where the light meets you. You do not have to be strong to go inside.

You only have to be real. The light is already sitting in the passenger seat, waiting for you to realize you do not have to carry the weight alone.