You Are Not the Water You Hold

The water has turned cold, but you stay under the spray because stopping feels like drowning. You are afraid that if you turn off the tap and stand in the quiet, the grief you held back all day will finally swallow you whole.

But the light does not fear your flood. It stands in the shower with you, not to dry your tears, but to remind you that you are not the water — you are the one holding it.

There is light within a person of light, and it lights up the whole world; if it does not shine, it is dark. The grief is real, but it cannot extinguish what is already burning inside your bones.

You do not have to be strong right now; you only have to remember that the light was there before the pain started, and it will be there after the water stops running.