The right to light.

There is a moment

when a gracious hand
settles on your shoulder.

Lightly.
Almost weightless.

And you straighten.

As if, with that touch,
you were granted
the right
to be more.

It comes in golden light.

And you begin to think
the light is coming from you.

But it is only light.

Accidental.

Borrowed.

It leaves
the moment
its source
turns away.

Sometimes
it happens differently.

Clouds gather.

Someone in power
fixes their gaze
on you.

No anger.

No fury.

Only icy calm.

It does not shout.

It simply looks.

And you understand:

your truth is worth
exactly as much
as it is allowed
to be.

No more.

No less.

Exactly as much
as others decide.

There are people
who grow taller than themselves
under praise.

And there are those
who shrink
to the size
of their own shadow
under blame.

And we—

both kinds—

drift like a boat
between two shores.

Back.

Forth.

Back.

Forth.

Until we learn
to keep our balance

without
someone else's hands
on the tiller.

But do you know
what is truly frightening?

Not the praise.

Not the blame.

What is frightening
is that we begin to believe:

our worth
is whatever
they say it is.

That we exist
only as much as
we are noticed.

Approved.

Patted on the head.

But one day,

in the quietest hour,

when there are no hands,

no eyes,

no golden light,

you are left

alone

with yourself.

And you ask:

—What is left of me

when every judgment
has been stripped away,

every approving touch
washed from my skin,

every borrowed light
wiped from my face?

What remains?

And if the answer
is silence,

then all this time
you were not living
as yourself.

There was only
someone else's mercy
reflected in emptiness.

But if, in that silence,
you hear your own voice—

quiet,

uncertain,

but real—

a voice that does not ask
for permission to be,

does not wait
to be noticed,

but simply says:

—I am here.

I am.

I do not depend.

Then you have found
what can never be taken away.

Dignity.

It does not ask
for praise.

It does not fear
blame.

It needs no witnesses.

It simply is.

Like a root.

Like breath.

Like the part of you
that is older
than any opinion

and stronger
than any power.

So let them praise you.

Do not grow taller.

Let them blame you.

Do not grow smaller.

Remain

who you were

before the hand
settled on your shoulder,

before someone told you
what you were worth.

Because the hand
will move away.

The light
will fade.

The clouds
will scatter.

And you
will remain.

Then look.

Look at yourself.

Without the boat.

Without the shores.

Without a life preserver
made of other people's words.

You are not the boat.

You are the water.

You are not
the reflection
of a beam.

You are
your own source.

And your dignity
is not measured

by praise,

by blame,

or by the number of eyes
turned toward you.

It is measured
by one thing only:

Can you look at the world

without lowering your eyes,

without soaring
with praise,

without falling
under blame,

but simply—

with steadiness?

The way those look
who have finally understood:

the light burning inside you
is not reflected light.

It is yours.

It always was yours.

Someone just forgot
to tell you.

And you forgot
to remember.

Remember.

Alın Ak / KaJe MeG