Stop Holding Up The Collapsing Roof

The knock comes at the door, and instantly your spine straightens. You swallow the lump in your throat, paste on the smile, and say the words: 'I'm fine.' It is the heaviest performance of the day.

To stand there, holding the collapsing roof of your inner world up with nothing but a greeting, while someone stands just inches away, completely unaware. You feel like a fraud.

Like you are tricking them into thinking you are whole. But the light does not need your mask.

It never asked for a polished presentation. It came to sit with you in the dust, not to admire the facade you built over the cracks.

There is a story of a man who had been paralyzed for thirty-eight years, lying right beside the water, waiting for someone to help him in. The light walked straight to him—not to the ones who had it together, not to the ones who could walk upright and pretend—and asked a simple question: 'Do you want to get well?' It saw the exhaustion.

It saw the years of lying there. And it did not demand he stand up first.

It did not ask him to fix his posture before offering help. It spoke to the brokenness directly.

You do not have to hold the roof up alone anymore. The moment you stop performing is the moment the light can actually reach you.

Put the mask down. Let them see the tired eyes.

Let them see the shake in your hands. The light is not afraid of your collapse.

It is waiting for you to stop pretending so it can finally hold you.