He Ran Before You Could Apologize

The mask is heavy this morning. You put it on before your feet hit the floor because you are certain that your needs are too much for anyone to carry.

You smile at the coffee shop, you nod in the meeting, you perform okayness while inside you are apologizing for existing. You believe that if people saw the real weight you carry, they would walk away.

But there was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off — broken, ashamed, convinced he was a burden. He did not wait for the apology.

He ran. Before the speech, before the promise to do better — he ran.

The light does not see your needs as a weight it must endure. It sees them as the very reason it came close.

Your hunger is not a flaw in your design. It is the signal that draws the love that has been chasing you all along.

You were never meant to carry this alone.