You Can Exhale Now

You lie perfectly still, holding your breath so the rise of your chest won't disturb the fragile peace they've finally found. The mask is heavy this morning—the one that says you are fine, that you are not exhausted, that you do not need anything.

You carry the weight of their rest on your own rigid shoulders, afraid that any movement will shatter the silence. But the light does not need you to be statue-still to be present with you.

It sees the tension in your spine and the fear in your frozen hands. You do not have to perform okayness for the One who knows what it costs to stay quiet.

The truth you are hiding—the weariness, the ache, the desperate need to move—is already known and already held. You can exhale.

The peace you are protecting is not so fragile that your humanity will break it.