standing in the bathroom with the faucet running so no one hears you finally cry

The house is heavy with silence, but your chest is full of a storm that has no place to go. So you turn on the faucet, letting the water roar just to cover the sound of you finally breaking.

You stand there in the steam, shaking, convinced that if anyone heard you, they would turn away. But listen — the light does not need the noise to be quieted.

It does not need your tears to be hidden behind the rush of water. There was a woman who bled for twelve years and thought she had to sneak through a crowd just to touch the edge of a coat.

She thought she had to be invisible to be healed. But when she reached out, the whole crowd stopped.

The light turned around. It did not scold her for her need.

It called her Daughter. Your grief is not a secret that must be drowned out.

It is a holy thing, seen clearly even in the dark. The water in the pipes will stop running, but the One who knows you is already standing beside you in the steam, holding you while you cry.