The Light Sits With You in Dark

The sun has gone down, and the house is quiet enough to hear the rehearsal begin. You are practicing words you haven't spoken yet, building a case against yourself before you've even asked a simple question.

You brace for the blow that never comes. But listen — the light did not come for the ones who have it together.

It came for the sick. It sits with you in the gathering dark, not waiting for your perfect speech, but listening to the tremble in your voice.

You think you need to apologize for existing, for needing, for taking up space. Yet the truth is already settled: your many failures have been forgiven, because your great love — the very fact that you are still trying to reach out — has shown what matters most.

The night cannot hold you in this shame. The light is closer than your next breath.

You are not too broken to ask.