You Are Allowed to Make a Sound

The house is quiet now, but it is not peace. It is the heavy silence of a child who has learned that making a sound brings danger, so they hold their breath until their chest aches.

This is the middle of the day — the long stretch where the mask is hardest to wear, where you perform okayness while something inside you is too terrified to cry out. You feel small.

You feel like if you make even a whisper of your real need, the world will collapse. But listen — the light does not need you to be loud to find you.

It sees the tremble in the hands you are hiding under the table. It hears the scream you swallowed an hour ago.

You do not have to earn the right to take up space. The light is already in the room, sitting on the floor beside you, waiting for you to exhale.

The silence was a survival tactic, but it is not your home anymore. You are allowed to make a sound.