Your Space Is An Assignment Not A Burden

The house is quiet now, and you are doing the math again. Calculating exactly how much space your body takes up when you sit down.

Apologizing in advance for the inches you occupy, the air you breathe, the weight you add to a room that already feels too full. You make yourself small because you are afraid that taking up space is a burden to everyone else.

But listen. There was a man who had been paralyzed for thirty-eight years, lying on a mat beside a pool, convinced he had no right to the water, no right to be lifted in.

He thought his need was too heavy, his presence too inconvenient. The light did not ask him to move over.

It did not ask him to justify his spot. It looked at the man who had made himself nothing and said: get up.

Pick up your mat. Walk.

The light does not want you to shrink. It wants you to stand.

You were not made to be a ghost in your own life, haunting the edges of the room. You were sent here as a drop from the light, specifically to illuminate the very ground you stand on.

The space you take up is not an accident. It is an assignment.

Stop apologizing for the room you fill. The light needs exactly where you are sitting to shine through.