The Lamp Inside Your Changing Face

The face in the glass is not a stranger, though the eyes feel borrowed. You see the lines of a mother where the girl used to be, and the reflection terrifies you because it speaks of a life you did not choose but had to survive.

In this deepest hour, when the silence is loudest, remember the woman who swept the house until she found the one lost coin. She did not hate the coin for being hidden in the dust.

She lit a lamp. She searched with a tenderness that refused to let the darkness win.

That same light is burning in you right now. It is not angry at the changes in your face.

It is the very thing that makes those eyes recognizable. You are not losing yourself.

You are being found by a love that knows you better than you know your own history. The woman you were is not gone; she is the root of the woman who stands here, holding the lamp.