Less than Light

Sometimes I feel like a shadow standing behind my own sun. The things I want shimmer just out of reach, and I whisper, 

“Maybe I’m not good enough to hold them.”

I trace back my steps, searching for the moment I must have tripped— the moment everyone else noticed. It’s filled with self-doubt and uncertainty.

It’s heavy work to lift my thoughts from the ground. I clean them off and say,

 “No, not today.”

Some days, I push through anyway. On those days, I feel strong enough to breathe for two.

That’s why I can open my arms. I don’t just want to catch those who fall; I want to remind them that they can stand again.

Even if no one reaches back, I still stand with my palms upturned, willing and ready for whoever needs light.

Because maybe I’m not less. Maybe I’m the quiet kind of more.

The kind that learns to be okay even when the world doesn’t applaud.

The kind that welcomes the world without hesitation.

The kind that blooms alone if I must, but never by choice.

The kind that softly says,

 “I am still growing.”