The Weight of Light

The Weight of Light

By Millicent Chisom

Light is not always feathered,

not always soft like morning hush.

Sometimes, it arrives heavy —

a burden of brightness

you are not ready to carry.

It presses through your window

at 6:07 a.m.,

uninvited and insistent,

spilling truth

on the cracks you hid

under last night’s silence.

You pull the covers

as if fabric can protect

a soul unraveling quietly.

But light knows.

It sees the tear stains dried

on the pillow’s edge,

the half-read book

closed too abruptly,

mid-sentence —

like you,

paused,

unfinished.

Have you ever stood still

in a crowded room

and felt more alone

than in an empty field?

The light in such places

does not warm.

It exposes.

You smile anyway.

People are trained

to love the sun.

They will not understand

your wish for clouded skies,

for gentle gray

that neither demands joy

nor reminds you

of the lack of it.

Still, there are days

when light saves.

Like the golden hour

that paints your scars

in bronze —

turning pain

into a kind of art.

Or the moonlight

that cradles your insomnia,

promising that

even in darkness,

you are seen.

Even shadows are proof

of your existence.

I have walked through

seasons of blinding radiance,

each step aching

with the weight of “should.”

You should be happier.

You should be grateful.

You should be stronger.

But light doesn’t erase grief.

It only reframes it —

casts it longer across the walls

so you can study its shape,

understand its edge,

and maybe… forgive it.

There is no shame

in needing dimness.

Even flowers rest

before they bloom again.

So if today

you cannot rise

like the sun,

then stay soft,

like dusk.

Let your light be quiet,

a whisper of flame

inside your chest,

flickering but alive.

You are not less

for shining differently.

One day,

the weight of light

will feel like wings.

And you —

yes, you —

will remember

how to fly.