Right where you are

I do not write
to lift you up
before you are ready.
I write
to kneel beside you.

To sit in the silence
you don’t know how to name yet.
To reach across the space
between your ache and mine
and say,
I’m here too.

These words
are not instructions.
Not commands.
Not even answers.
They are offerings.
Soft lamps left burning
on the path
so you don’t feel
so alone
in the dark.

I do not need you
to be healed
or hopeful
or whole.
Only honest.
Only here.
Only human.

And if all you can do today
is breathe—
then I will write something
that breathes with you.
If all you can do
is feel the weight—
then I will write something
that helps you carry it.

I don’t write to pull you out.
I write to sit with you
until you’re ready
to rise.

Right where you are—
that is where I will meet you.
Every time.
With softness.
With truth.
With all the love
I can fit
into a single sentence.