Before Your Light Goes Out

The noise around you starts to lead.

You veer slightly from the light —
but you’re still holding yours.
You’re appreciated for brightening the space.

At first, it feels exciting.

Then it becomes draining.
Colder.
There’s a draft.

You hesitate.

The noise reassures you.
“You’re overthinking.”

Then a gust hits —
and your light goes out.

The discomfort outweighs the noise.
You rush back toward the light.
Your flame reignites.
You tell yourself you won’t get caught in the dark again.

But the invitation returns.
“This time is different.”

At what point do you stop re-entering places that extinguish you?

Not all darkness is an assignment.
Not every invitation deserves a response.

Strength is staying in the light.
Wisdom is listening the first time.

If every time you enter a space your light dims —
that’s not humility. That’s information.

Your body keeps score.
Your intuition remembers drafts your mind tries to dismiss.

You don’t have to prove you can survive every cave.

Some seasons aren’t about lighting the whole cavern.

They’re about protecting your light —
your energy,
your health.

The most faithful choice
is protecting your light.