Light Waits for Closed Petals to Open

The sun is up, but your skin still feels like it belongs to someone else. When arms reach for you, you flinch—not because you don't want the love, but because the surface of you feels like a stranger's house.

You pull away, and then the shame hits: why can't I just let them in? Why do I have to make this hard?

But listen—the light that lives inside you was there before the hurt made your skin feel like armor. It was there before you learned to flinch.

And it is still there, untouched by the distance you keep. What you feel as a wall, the light sees as a wound that is still learning it is safe.

You do not have to force your body to accept what it isn't ready for. The dawn doesn't demand the flowers open before they are warm; it just waits, shining on the closed petals until they unfold on their own.

Your hesitation is not a failure of faith; it is the honest rhythm of a heart remembering how to trust. The light is not offended by your flinch; it is the quiet space where you will eventually feel safe enough to stay.