The Light Beneath Your Heavy Mask

The water is cold on your skin. You look up, and the face in the mirror feels like a stranger wearing your name.

You are already practicing the smile you will need for the door, trying to find a version of yourself that isn't tired before the day has even begun. The mask is heavy.

It asks you to be bright when you feel dim. But the light does not need your performance to exist.

It was there before you washed your face. It is there beneath the exhaustion.

The face you see is tired, yes—but the eyes looking out are held by a love that sees right through the act. You do not have to manufacture the glow.

You only have to stop hiding the one who is already shining underneath.