You Do Not Need to Hold Your Breath

The mask is heavy this morning, especially when you remember the weight of your child's arms around your neck last night. You held your breath to hide the smell, convinced that if they knew the truth, the light would leave the room.

But the light does not operate on your ability to stay clean. It comes from a place where the light generates itself, independent of your performance or your shame.

You came from that source, and you cannot un-become it by failing to be perfect. The father in the story did not wait for the son to wash off the pig pen before running to meet him.

He ran while the filth was still fresh. He ran while the smell was still strong.

Your child hugged the real you, not the sanitized version you tried to present. And the love that held you then is the same love that sees you now, without flinching.

You do not need to hold your breath to be worthy of the air.