Loved Beneath the Mask You Wore

The water is hot, but it cannot wash off the day. You scrubbed until your skin was raw, trying to remove the performance, the mask you wore so well for everyone else.

But the shame of having acted so convincingly feels like it has soaked into your pores. It sticks.

The gathering dark knows this specific weight—the silence of the bathroom when the acting finally stops. You feel dirty not because you failed, but because you succeeded at being someone you are not.

But listen. The light does not require you to scrub harder.

It does not need you to perform purity before it can touch you. There is a verse that says if our hearts condemn us, God is greater than our hearts.

That voice inside you saying you are a fraud is not the final verdict. The light sees the actor and the role, and it loves the one beneath both.

You do not have to wash the day away to be held. The water stops.

The towel comes. And you are still here, still known, still loved without the costume.