The Light I Protect

There was a friend who once told me, during one of the darkest seasons of my life, that I carried a light. A light that quietly invited people closer. One that made strangers feel safe enough to lay down their armor and speak their truths.

Recently, someone else told me I have kind, warm eyes. Eyes that revealed intention. Nurturing. Compassion.

I smiled because they were seeing the woman I've always been.

The woman beneath the survival.

But age has taught me something my younger heart could never understand.

Not everyone arrives as themselves.

Some people wear masks so well they forget where the performance ends and the person begins.

Growing up, I couldn't trust many of the people who helped raise me. I didn't have the language for it then. I was simply a child gullible, hopeful, believing love and protection naturally belonged together.

They didn't.

It wasn't until the last eight years, sitting across from my therapist, that the pieces began finding each other. I called them my aha moments. Every session uncovered another thread leading back to the little girl who spent her life people-pleasing, desperately searching for validation because home never felt emotionally safe.

I wasn't longing to be praised.

I was longing to be understood.

To be heard without judgment.

To believe that my feelings mattered.

Somewhere along the way, friends became family. And in those vulnerable conversations, I discovered I wasn't the only one carrying invisible bruises. Many of the people I loved had their own stories of abandonment, rejection, or emotional neglect.

Healing became less lonely.

Therapy taught me something that felt impossible at first.

It is okay to detach from the people who hurt you.

Even when they share your blood.

Especially when protecting your peace means choosing yourself.

I created little rituals inside my home. As I dusted shelves, folded laundry, or mopped the floors, I whispered mantras into the air. I forgave those who had wounded me. I thanked them for the lessons they never intended to teach.

And then I asked for forgiveness, too.

Because guilt has a way of convincing us we could have loved harder, fixed more, stayed longer, or somehow earned the love we deserved all along.

That's an incredibly heavy weight to carry.

Especially when life keeps asking you to become someone stronger.

Someone healthier.

Someone capable of building a different future.

Then, the universe introduced me to a love that taught me to care for myself from the inside out. Through nourishment, intentional living, and slowing down, I began clearing more than my body.

I cleared the fog.

The noise.

The confusion.

I began recognizing the difference between those who simply enjoyed my light and those who genuinely wanted to help protect it.

People often say relationships arrive like seasons.

Or like the phases of the moon.

Some illuminate your darkest nights.

Some teach you to release.

Some quietly disappear once they've completed their purpose.

I've stopped grieving every ending.

Because not every soul is meant to become a permanent address.

Some are simply passing through, leaving behind a lesson, a mirror, or a piece of wisdom that becomes part of who we are.

And maybe that's enough.

The light my friend saw all those years ago never disappeared.

It was simply buried beneath survival.

Now that I've found it again, I've learned something just as important as letting people in.

Protecting your light is an act of love, too.

As I've become more aware of myself, I've also become more aware of the weight the world asks us to carry.

My heart is often heavy not only because of what I've survived, but because of what I witness around me every day.

I watch immigrant families live with fear as immigration enforcement actions separate loved ones and leave entire communities uncertain about tomorrow. I think about the countless immigrants, past and present, whose labor, culture, and resilience have helped shape this country, and I wonder how compassion became so difficult to find.

I read about innocent civilians caught in wars, families displaced, and lives lost in conflicts driven by power, borders, and politics. Every headline reminds me that behind every statistic is a mother, a father, a child, or someone who simply wanted to wake up to another ordinary day.

Then there are the stories that feel painfully close to home stories of people from marginalized communities whose lives are forever changed or cut short because trust was betrayed. They remind me how fragile safety can feel for so many.

As a woman of color, those stories don't feel distant.

They feel personal.

And as the parent of a transgender child, my heart carries another layer of hope and worry. I pray they continue to find people who love them without conditions, who celebrate them without judgment, and who choose kindness over cruelty. I pray they build a community that protects their spirit instead of asking them to shrink themselves to make others comfortable.

Maybe that's why I feel things so deeply.

Maybe it's because I know what it feels like to grow up searching for safety.

When you've spent your life looking for places where love doesn't have strings attached, you begin wishing for that same kind of refuge for everyone else.

Healing has taught me that protecting my own peace doesn't mean closing my heart to the suffering of others.

It means allowing compassion to remain one of the brightest parts of who I am, even when the world gives me every reason to dim my light.