You Are the Ground Where Light Breaks

The sun is rising, but you feel nothing. And that silence inside you is terrifying because it looks like the hardening you swore you'd never become.

You worry that the numbness is not a shield, but a transformation—that you are turning into the very thing you hate. But the morning does not judge the night for being dark; it simply arrives.

The light is not asking you to feel ready. It is just showing up, like it did for the shepherds in the field, while they were still standing in the cold.

You are not becoming the stone. You are the ground where the light is breaking.

The numbness is not your identity; it is the frost before the thaw. The sun rises on the frozen earth not to scold it, but to melt it.

You are not the cold. You are the place where the warmth is returning.