You Do Not Have To Be Spotless

The water is scalding, but you turn it hotter, scrubbing your neck until the skin is raw and red. You are trying to wash off a scent that no soap can touch, a stain that lives deeper than the surface.

You stand in the steam, exhausted, convinced that if you just scrub harder, you might be clean enough to face them. But the light does not need you to be spotless before you walk out the door.

It saw the woman who wet feet with tears and said her great love proved she was forgiven, not her cleanliness. You are not defined by what you are trying to erase.

The one who knows your shame is the same one who calls you forward into the day. You do not have to hide the raw places; they are just proof you are still alive.