You Do Not Have to Shrink

The morning light hits the window and you are already rehearsing. You practice the apology before you even speak, trimming your voice so it takes up less space.

You make yourself small, convinced that your weight will break the room. But the light does not need you to shrink.

It saw the woman at the well who thought she had to hide at noon, and it asked her for a drink anyway. It did not wait for her to fix her story.

It did not ask her to be lighter. It simply met her in her shame and offered water.

You are walking into the day carrying a burden you were never meant to carry—the belief that you must earn your place by disappearing. But the light sees you fully, and it does not flinch.

It calls you by name, not by your performance. You do not have to apologize for existing.