You Do Not Have to Lighten Yourself

The sun is going down, and with it comes the quiet, terrifying math of your own weight. You calculate how much longer you can hold on before you break, before you become too heavy for anyone to carry.

And the impulse rises: leave now, while you can still walk away on your own two feet. But listen.

There was a man paralyzed for thirty-eight years, lying beside a pool, convinced he had no one to help him in. The light did not wait for him to fix his legs.

It did not wait for him to be light enough to lift himself. It asked one question: 'Do you want to get well?' Then it commanded: 'Get up.' The healing was not a reward for being unburdened.

It was the voice that made the burden bearable. You do not have to lighten yourself before you are loved.

The light does not measure your weight and decide you are too much. It sees the one who cannot move and says: I am here.

Stay. The exhale is not an escape.

It is the moment you realize you were never meant to carry this alone.