Where the Light Finds You

There’s something quietly defiant about a lighthouse.

It stands at the edge of everything—stone and sea, silence and storm—rooted in solitude. It does not chase the darkness or tame the ocean. It simply shines. A single unwavering light in a world where everything else moves, changes, or disappears.

The first time I stood before a lighthouse, I was twelve. My uncle had taken me to the coast on one of those long, quiet drives meant to shake the heaviness out of life. I didn’t know then that he was grieving—the kind of grief adults carry quietly, tucked behind soft smiles and casual small talk. But I knew something had changed. The man who once told loud jokes over Sunday lunch now walked in silence, his hands deep in the pockets of a weathered coat.

The lighthouse stood at the end of a jagged path, the kind that makes your ankles ache and your lungs burn a little. I remember thinking it looked like a watchtower for ghosts—something both forgotten and eternal. But when we reached the base, he pointed up and said, “You don’t need to see the light all the time. You just need to know it’s there.”

I didn’t understand what he meant until much later.

Now, years on, I return to that image when things grow heavy again. Because life, as I’ve come to know it, doesn’t warn you before the fog rolls in. One morning you wake up and everything feels distant—your purpose, your people, even your own voice. There’s a kind of quiet panic in losing your direction, especially when you can’t explain why or how it happened.

But lighthouses don’t panic. They don’t flinch in the wind or dim when the sea screams. They shine because that’s what they were built to do. Not for applause. Not for recognition. simply to assist someone in finding their way back. And maybe that’s the point.

We don’t always need to be the light. Sometimes, it’s enough to look for it. To admit that we are lost. To reach out in the dark and find something—someone—that helps us return to ourselves.

For me, that light shows up in different forms. Sometimes it’s a late-night phone call with someone who doesn’t ask questions, just listens. Sometimes it’s a piece of music that reminds me I’m still here, still feeling. Sometimes it’s a walk at dusk, the sky bleeding into the sea, reminding me that endings can be soft, too.

We often think of strength as action—doing more, moving forward, staying productive. But real strength, I’ve learned, often looks like stillness. Like sitting with your pain instead of fleeing it. Like letting someone else hold the lantern while you gather your breath. Like whispering, “I’m not okay,” and knowing that’s not weakness, but courage.

I think of the people in my life who have been lighthouses without even realizing it. The friend who sent a poem on a random Tuesday. The stranger who smiled when I felt invisible. The teacher who saw through my silence and stayed after class. They didn’t fix the storm. But they reminded me it would pass.

And that’s what a lighthouse does. It doesn’t rescue. It doesn’t steer. It simply stands. Tall. Honest. Constant.

When I feel lost now, I try to remember that even when I can’t see the way, the light still shines. that it is acceptable to rest, doubt, break, and rebuild. Because in the rhythm of life, we are not meant to always be strong, always be sure.

We were created to be. In all our fragility and wonder. In our searching and stillness.

And maybe, just maybe, we’re someone else’s lighthouse, too.