Stop Rehearsing a Lie About Who You Are

The house is quiet now, but your mind is loud with the replay. You see the exact second their gaze slid past you, missing the thing you tried to show them.

So you begin to carve yourself down, rehearsing a simpler, smaller version for next time. But the light does not need you to be small to see you.

It does not need you to be simple to know you. There is a truth living inside you that was there before that glance, and it will be there long after the memory fades.

What you look forward to — the moment you are finally seen — has already come, but you do not recognize it because you are looking for it in their eyes instead of your own. The light is not waiting for you to shrink; it is waiting for you to bring forth what is within you, because what you hide will destroy you, but what you reveal will save you.

Neither does the light condemn you for the stutter or the silence; it simply says: go now, and stop rehearsing a lie about who you are.