The Light Meets You on the Floor

The hot water hits your neck and the tiles suddenly feel too far away. Your knees give out not because you are weak, but because the effort of constructing today's version of yourself has finally caught up with you.

In this long, quiet middle of the day, the mask feels heaviest. You are exhausted from holding up a face that does not match the fracture inside.

But listen — the light does not require you to stand. It is already on the floor with you, in the steam and the shaking.

There is no performance required here, no version of you that needs to be built before you are loved. The light sees the raw, unedited truth of your collapse and calls it holy.

You do not have to get up right now. You just have to let the water wash over the person who is finally, honestly, broken.