The Light Sees You Beneath the Mask

The mask is heavy this morning. You put it on before your feet hit the floor because you are terrified that if they saw the real, messy version of you, they would finally stop pretending to care.

So you smile at the coffee machine. You nod in the meeting.

You perform okayness while breaking inside. But there is a voice that knows the weight of the costume.

The light saw a woman once who had spent twelve years bleeding, spending everything on doctors, getting worse, untouchable. She didn't clean herself up before reaching out.

She didn't wait until she was presentable. She pushed through the crowd, trembling, and touched the edge of a robe.

And the light stopped. It turned around in the crush of people to find her.

It called her Daughter. Not 'clean one.' Not 'fixed one.' Daughter.

Your mess does not scare the light away. It draws it closer.

The terror says: hide or they will leave. The truth says: the only thing they want to see is you.

You are not loved for the mask. You are loved beneath it.