embrace the light while it burns
I used to think I’d know when something good was happening. That joy would feel big, or loud, or obvious. That love would come with certainty, and that happiness would make a sound loud enough to wake me from whatever sleep I had put myself in. But lately, I’ve been realizing that the best things in life don’t come with warnings, and they rarely make a scene. They pass. They flicker. They stay for a while, quietly, and then they’re gone.
I think I’ve missed a lot of moments like that — times when I should’ve looked up and paid attention, when I should’ve leaned into something that was soft and kind and real. But I was too caught up in survival, in worry, in the fear that it might not last. And then, of course, it didn’t. And I’ve been left wondering whether it slipped away because it wasn’t meant to stay… or because I never let myself truly hold it while it was here.
Life, as it turns out, is all about timing. And I have never been good at timing. I arrive when things are fading. I realize how much I care just as someone’s leaving. I look back and recognize something beautiful long after it’s already burned out. It’s like watching the ashes of a fire and finally understanding how warm it used to be.
There’s a strange kind of ache in realizing something was good only when it’s gone. I think about old relationships — friendships that drifted without a fight, people I loved and pushed away without meaning to. At the time, it felt casual. Harmless. A message unanswered, a plan rescheduled, an emotion I didn’t want to deal with. But looking back, those were the beginnings of endings I never saw coming. And now it’s too late to go back. Now all I can do is carry the memory and try to be better with the next flame I’m lucky enough to hold.
I’m trying to learn from it all. Trying to stop waiting for some perfect alignment to tell me it’s okay to be present, to be grateful, to love fully while I can. Because good things do not wait around for me to be ready. They show up. They light up a room. They hold me briefly. And then, if I don’t reach out, they vanish.
So now, when life feels quiet but safe, when a friend laughs too hard over something small, when a sunset hits just right and I have someone to share it with, I remind myself: this is it. This is one of those fleeting, gentle things I’ve missed before. This is light. And I need to embrace it while it burns — before it becomes just another warmth I remember too late.
