The Shelter Standing in the Rain

The house is quiet now, and the phone has finally stopped ringing. You spent the evening holding space for everyone else's storms, answering every call, smoothing every worry.

But now that the noise has faded, you realize no one asked how you were holding up. It is a specific kind of cold — to be the shelter for others while standing in the rain yourself.

The light does not overlook the one who gives until they are empty. There is a promise that when you open your door, you will not be met with demands, but with presence.

Someone is coming in to eat with you, not to take from you. You do not have to earn the right to be cared for tonight.

The light is not a resource to be drained; it is a person who sits down beside you when the calls stop. You are not just the helper; you are the beloved.