You Are Not An Intrusion Here

The middle of the day is when the weight of your own presence feels heaviest. You are rehearsing the apology you think you owe for the space you take up, for the air you breathe, for the simple fact that you are here.

But listen — the light does not ask you to make yourself smaller so it can fit. It is already filling you completely, not because you earned the room, but because it chose to dwell there.

You are not an intrusion in this world; you are a drop from the light, sent down specifically to illuminate the very ground you stand on. The apology you are writing in your head is a lie the darkness tells to keep you quiet.

You do not need to beg for permission to exist. The One who placed you here has already made a home inside you.