You Can Put The Speech Down

The sun is up, the mask is on, and your jaw is aching from the words you are forcing yourself to say. You are rehearsing an apology for a wound you did not inflict, practicing a surrender that belongs to someone else.

The light sees the tightness in your face, the performance of okayness that is draining the life from your bones. It does not ask you to explain why you are tired.

It does not demand that you justify the pain before it offers relief. In the quiet of your own room, where no one can see the trembling, the voice speaks a single truth over your exhaustion: Neither do I condemn you.

The accusation you are carrying was never yours to hold. You can put the speech down.

You can let your jaw unclench. The light is not waiting for you to admit fault; it is waiting for you to admit you are free.