The Light Does Not Flinch When Seen

The room is bright now, and you are performing the part of someone who is okay. You are speaking, and then you see it—the accidental drift of a stranger's eyes, the split-second pause that feels like a verdict.

Your voice freezes. You wait for the disgust you are sure is coming.

But listen closely. What you are waiting for is a ghost.

The light that lives inside you does not flinch when it is seen. It does not hide.

Split a piece of wood, and the light is there. Lift up a stone, and you will find it there.

The sacred is not hidden beneath your skin, waiting to be discovered and shamed. It is already manifest in the very flesh you are trying to apologize for.

You do not need to earn the right to take up space. The kingdom is not a reward for perfect behavior.

It is inside you right now, spread out upon the earth, even in this awkward silence. The stranger's gaze cannot curdle what God has already called good.

You are not a mistake waiting to be corrected. You are the light, walking through the morning, fully visible.