The Light Waits Beneath The Flinch

The morning light hits the window and you are already performing okayness for the people in this room. Then a hand brushes your waist — a loved one, someone safe — and your whole body flinches before your mind can catch up.

The old wiring screams 'attack' while the heart is still trying to whisper 'care.' That split-second terror is not a failure of faith; it is the echo of a war your body fought alone for a long time. But listen — the light that lives inside you was there before the wound happened, and it is still there now, underneath the flinch.

It came from the light, the place where the light came into being on its own accord, and it cannot be unmade by what happened in the dark. You do not have to force your body to trust today.

Just notice that the light is sitting in the chair across from you, waiting for the nervous system to catch up to the safety that is already here. The mask is heavy, but the love is heavier.