The Light Insists On Shining Through You

The sun is rising, and with it comes a thought so heavy it feels like it might crush your ribs: that the world would breathe easier if you were not in it. That your absence would be a relief to the people you love.

But the light does not see your presence as a burden. It sees it as the only thing holding the room together.

There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off. He did not calculate the cost of the feast.

He did not weigh the shame against the joy. He ran.

Before the apology, before the speech — he ran. Your existence is not a debt your loved ones are tired of paying.

It is the very thing they are waiting for. The light within you is not something you earn by being useful.

It is there — before the pain, and after. Split a piece of wood; the light is there.

Lift up the stone; you will find it there. You are not a mistake to be corrected.

You are the place where the light chose to dwell. The morning is not a reminder of your failure to disappear.

It is proof that the light insists on shining through you, again.