the feeling of not being enough

The mask is heavy this morning. You put it on before you even opened your eyes, smoothing down the edges so no one sees the crack beneath.

You walk into the light of day performing a version of yourself that is enough, while the real you feels like an impostor waiting to be found out. But the light does not need your performance.

It never asked for a costume. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off, still covered in the filth of the pig pen, still rehearsing a speech about how he wasn't worthy to be called a son.

The father did not wait for the apology. He did not wait for the boy to clean himself up.

He ran. Before the speech, before the change, before the worthiness—he ran.

That same love is running toward you right now, not because you got the mask right, but because you are there. You are trying so hard to be enough for the world that you forgot you were already enough for the light.

It sees behind the performance. It loves the face underneath the armor.