The Light Is Already In The Water

The house is quiet now, but your shoulders still hold the weight of everyone else's storms. You have been the anchor so long that you forgot you are also drowning.

The performance of being the strong one is a heavy costume, and underneath it, you are gasping for air. But listen — there is a voice that speaks not to your strength, but to your sinking.

It sees the water rising over your head and does not ask why you are afraid. It simply reaches out.

You do not have to bring forth a perfect family or a healed home to be held. You only have to bring forth the truth of your own exhaustion.

The light is not waiting for you to stand up straight again. It is already in the water with you, holding you up when your own arms give out.