Held Even While You Tremble

The house is quiet now, and your hands are still deep in your pockets, clenched tight against the urge to reach out. You are afraid that if you let them go, your body will betray you again—that the tremor will return, that the words will stick, that you will be exposed as broken before you even speak.

But listen to the silence around you. It is not empty.

It is holding you. There is a peace I leave with you, not as the world gives, a peace that does not require your hands to be steady before it arrives.

The light does not wait for you to be composed. It does not need you to stop shaking before it comes close.

In fact, it is often in the trembling that the power is made perfect, that the fracture becomes the place where the dawn slips through. You do not have to unclench your fists to be held.

You only have to know that you are already held, even here, even now, even while you are still afraid to move.