The Light Runs to Your Mess

The room is loud, and you are holding your breath so your stomach won't rise and draw attention. You have become a statue in a crowd of movers, terrified that if anyone sees you breathe, they will see the crack in the mask.

But the light does not need you to be still to see you. It sees the chest that aches.

It sees the effort it takes to look okay when you are breaking inside. There was a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

He did not wait for the son to fix his face or straighten his clothes. He ran to the mess.

The light is running toward you right now, not because you are performing well, but because you are tired. You can let the air in.

The mask is heavy, and you were never meant to wear it forever. The courage of this morning is not holding it together; it is finally letting go.