The Light Loves Who You Are

The house is quiet now, and the mask feels heavy on your face. You are terrified that if you finally stop performing, the people who love you will realize they were loving a costume and leave.

But the light does not love the performance. It loves the one beneath it.

There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — still covered in the filth of the pig pen, still rehearsing a speech about unworthiness. He did not wait for the cleanup.

He ran. Before the apology, before the costume could be removed, he ran.

The light knows exactly who you are when the doors are locked and the act is dropped. And it is not frightened away.

It is drawn closer. The terror says they will leave if you stop.

The truth says they cannot leave because the light has already made its home in the real you. You are not loved for what you hold up.

You are loved for what you are.