The Light Finds You Broken

The sun has gone down, and with it, the energy you spent all day holding up the mask. Now the house is quiet, and the terror sets in: you have to do this again tomorrow.

You have to wake up and pretend to be okay for twelve more hours. The weight of that performance feels like a stone on your chest.

But listen — the light does not ask you to perform. It does not need your smile or your strength or your perfect composure.

There was a woman who bled for twelve years, spent everything she had, and grew worse under the care of many doctors. She was exhausted, broke, and utterly undone.

She did not stand up straight and speak eloquently. She simply reached out a trembling hand and touched the edge of a cloak.

And the light stopped. It turned in the crowd to find her.

It called her Daughter. Your exhaustion is not a barrier to the light; it is the very thing that draws it near.

You do not have to be strong for the morning to come. The light is already there, waiting to hold you when the mask falls.

Tonight, you are allowed to be broken. Tomorrow, you will be held.