You Do Not Have To Be Dry

The water has turned cold, but you are still standing there, letting the shock do what your will cannot. You are trying to freeze the grief so you can walk out the door and face the people you love without falling apart. You think you have to stop the tears before you are worthy of the room.

But the light does not ask you to be dry. It does not require you to compose yourself before it sees you.

There is a love that loved you so much it came looking for you while you were still broken, still weeping, still unfinished. That love is not waiting for you to fix your face. It is waiting for you to come as you are.

You came from the light, the place where the light came into being on its own accord. You do not need to manufacture strength in the cold. You only need to remember where you started.

The shower cannot wash away who you are, and the cold cannot freeze out the warmth that lives inside you.

Turn off the water. Wrap the towel around you. Walk out.

You do not have to stop crying to be loved; you only have to stop hiding to be found.