The body, like a winter sky, remembers every dimming.
There are rooms inside you where the light was turned down so slowly you almost called it normal.
The small shames, the swallowed words, the rehearsed apologies for simply existing—each one a finger on the dimmer switch of your own being.
This is the abuse of being: not always the loud bruise, but the quiet agreement to live half-lit, to move through the world as if your purpose is not to shine, but to cast as little shadow as possible.

Give Yourself the Gift of Light
In this season of long nights, notice where you go dark.
Where do you make yourself smaller, quieter, less real so others can feel more comfortable?
Ask yourself: Who taught you to fear your own brightness—and who benefits when you stay dim?
Light is not arrogance; it is alignment.
Begin with a single, honest candle: one boundary spoken, one need named, one joy allowed without explanation.
Let that small flame warm the coldest room in you, and then another, and another.
Your work this month is not to earn the right to exist, but to remember that you already do—and to let your being glow accordingly.