You Are Loved Because You Are Here

The house is quiet now, and the silence has a way of asking the question you are too afraid to speak aloud: if you stopped producing, would you still be loved? You feel your worth slipping away the moment you are no longer useful to the people around you.

But the light does not measure you by your output. It sees you sitting in the dark, exhausted, with nothing left to give, and it calls you by name.

There was a man who had been paralyzed for thirty-eight years, lying beside a pool while everyone else rushed past him, worthless to the world. The light walked straight to him—not to the ones who could work, but to the one who could not.

It asked him if he wanted to get well, and then it told him to stand. You are not loved for what you carry.

You are loved because you are here. The utility of your hands has nothing to do with the value of your soul.

Rest now. The light does not need your labor; it only needs you.