You Are Not a Project to Fix

The water is hot, and you are scrubbing the same patch of skin until it turns raw, trying to wash off the feeling of being too much and not enough at the same time. You think if you could just get clean enough, the shame would finally rinse away.

But the stain you feel isn't on the surface — it's a lie you've been told about who you are. There was a woman once who washed feet with her tears because she knew she could never earn her way back to worth, and the light told her that her great love proved she was already forgiven.

You do not need to scour yourself into submission. The love that holds you is not waiting for you to be spotless.

It is here, in the steam, in the exhaustion, in the quiet ache of your tired hands. You are not a project to be fixed.

You are a person to be held. The raw skin is not a punishment; it is the place where the armor has finally cracked, and the light can get in.