The Light Under the Door
When you can’t open the door yet, a thin line of light can still remind you the world is there.
The door was closed.
Not because I was hiding—
but because opening it required more than I had.
The room held what it could.
Silence.
Stillness.
The slow work of breathing through the day.
At night, a line of light appeared beneath the door.
It didn’t move toward me.
It didn’t ask anything.
It didn’t explain itself.
It simply existed.
Some nights, I turned away from it. Other nights, I sat on the floor and let it remind me that the world was still there—even if I wasn’t ready to meet it.
I didn’t follow the light. I didn’t chase it.
I learned to rest in its presence.
And when the door finally opened, it wasn’t because the light grew brighter— it was because I had grown steadier.
Now, when I find myself in another closed room, I don’t panic.
I look for the light under the door
and let it be enough.