The Light Does Not Run From Water

The house is quiet, but your heart is screaming. You are holding your breath because you are terrified that if you finally say the words—'I am drowning'—the person you love will finally walk away.

So you stay silent. You stay dry on the outside while you sink on the inside.

But listen: the light does not run from the water. There was a night in a garden when the light itself fell on its face and begged for the cup to pass, overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.

It did not hide its weakness. It showed it to the very friends who would soon fail it.

And they did not leave because he was broken; they left because they were asleep. The light is not afraid of your deep end.

It is not looking for a perfect swimmer. It is looking for the one who is honest.

If you wake them up, you might find they were waiting for you to stop pretending you were fine. The fear says: speak and be abandoned.

The truth says: speak and be held.