The Light Waits Beneath Your Feet

The sun is rising, but the lock on your door feels like paper against the terror inside. You made it through the night, yet your skin still feels like a room with no walls, exposed to everything that might hurt you.

The light has never left you, not for a second, but it does not force its way in; it waits for you to notice it is already the foundation beneath your feet. There is a father who saw his son coming home from a long way off.

He ran. Before the apology, before the speech — he ran.

That same love is running toward the part of you that feels most unsafe, not to lecture you on bravery, but to stand between you and the fear. You do not have to manufacture a sense of safety before the morning can begin.

The dawn breaks whether you feel ready or not. The light is not a feeling you have to earn; it is the ground you are standing on right now.