You Do Not Have to Protect the Light

The sun has gone down, and the house is quiet, but you are both still holding your breath. You watch them swallow their tears so you won't have to see them, and you swallow yours so they won't have to carry them.

Two people starving in a room full of bread. But the light does not ask you to be strong for each other.

It asks you to be real. There is a grace that is entirely with you, enough to hold both your griefs at once without breaking.

You do not have to protect the light from your pain — it was made to carry it. Stop performing the okayness.

The mask is heavy, and you are allowed to put it down. The love that holds you is bigger than the sorrow you are trying to hide.