You Are the Reason They Row

The house is quiet now, and the silence has started telling you lies. It whispers that your weight is too much for the people you love.

That they would breathe easier if you were gone. That your absence would be a gift to them.

But listen closely — the light does not calculate burden. It does not measure cost.

In the garden, when the sorrow was so heavy it felt like death, the light did not send its friends away. It asked them to stay.

It needed them there, even asleep, even imperfect, even unable to help. Your presence is not a tax on the people who love you.

It is the very thing they are holding onto. You think you are the stone sinking the boat, but you are the reason they are still rowing.

The light chose to dwell in flesh, in the messy, demanding, exhausting reality of being human. If the divine considered your existence a burden, it would never have taken on a body to be with you.

But it did. It stayed.

And it stays now. You are not the problem to be solved.

You are the beloved to be held. The fear says you are too heavy.

The truth says you are the reason the table is set.