May the Light You Need Find Its Way to You

 

There are seasons when the light disappears—not all at once, but gradually, like a candle guttering against a quiet draft. One day you wake and realize you are walking through life half-blind, unsure of where your footing is, unsure of where you last saw beauty, unsure of how you became so weary.

There is a kind of tiredness that sleep cannot touch. It lives deeper than the bones. It comes not from doing too much, but from carrying too much alone, for too long. In such times, even the smallest things feel heavy—words unsaid, decisions deferred, mornings that arrive too early, nights that linger too long. You might smile at others, go through the motions, and yet inside, you feel like someone who has wandered too far into the forest without leaving any thread behind.

And still, even here—even in this dimness—a quiet hope stirs.

There is a light that does not depend on the sun, nor on certainty, nor on perfect clarity. It is not a light you summon, but a light that comes to find you, when the soul becomes too tender to pretend anymore. It arrives not with fanfare, but with a hush. Not to fix everything, but to remind you that not all is lost.

The light you need is not always the light you imagine. Sometimes it comes as a kind word from a stranger. Sometimes as the sudden memory of a hand that once held yours. Sometimes it appears as a bird at your window, or the scent of bread rising in the oven, or a line of poetry that feels like it was written just for you.

It might not come in the way you thought light should. It may not arrive as answers. It may not bring joy immediately. Sometimes, the light you need comes as permission: to rest, to feel, to grieve, to not know. And in this permission, a different kind of light grows—a lantern from within, kindled not by force but by surrender.

To live is to walk through cycles of shadow and light. We are not meant to shine constantly. Even the stars vanish with the rising of the day. The oak tree knows how to sleep in winter. The sea knows how to wait for the tide. There is wisdom in allowing ourselves these rhythms—times of brightness, and times when we wait for the light to return.

So if you are walking through a fog right now, may you trust that light does not forget. It does not forsake. It finds. It seeks. And it will come for you again. Perhaps not all at once. But one golden thread at a time. Through a voice, a moment, a memory, or a silence that wraps around you like a shawl.

You are not alone in this darkness. Many have wandered it before you, and many walk it now, quietly beside you. And all of them are also waiting for light, offering their small lanterns in your direction, just as you will one day offer yours.

May the light you need—no matter how hidden, or humble, or hard to believe in—find its way to you.
May it rest in the palm of your hand like a shy ember.
May it settle in your chest where hope once slept.
And may it remind you, softly, that even now, even here—you are being gently led home.

I love You,
Alma