The Light Does Not Recoil From You

The middle of the day is when the mask feels heaviest, especially when your own body betrays you in a room full of eyes. You sit frozen, terrified that the smell rising from your chair will announce what you cannot say, turning you into an object of pity or disgust before you can even stand.

But the light does not recoil from the things you are most ashamed to release. There was a man once who carried a torment so foul, so isolating, that he lived outside the city walls, screaming in the graves because no one could bear to be near him.

The light did not send him away. It leaned in close, looked him in the eye, and called him by name, restoring him until he could sit at a table again.

That same light is sitting right here in this meeting with you, not despite the mess, but inside it. You are not defined by the thing you cannot control, nor by the fear of being found out.

The shame says you must hide. The truth says you are already held.