Loved Before You Drew Breath

The house is quiet now, and in this silence, the old suspicion returns: that you are only loved for what you can give, for the work you do, for the mask you wear. You feel like a tool that stops being useful when the lights go out.

But listen — the light does not ask for your labor. It asks for your presence.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, broken and empty-handed, and he ran before the boy could offer a single thing. He ran not because of what the son could provide, but because of who he was.

You are not a servant hired for a job. You are a friend who has been chosen.

The love that reaches for you tonight is not a wage you earn by staying awake and performing. It is a gift that was given before you drew your first breath.

You are loved because you exist, not because you produce.