Going home

How do you tell a three year old you're not coming home? Not because you’re lost. Not because you’re broken. Because you’ve been called higher. I stood in the fire and didn’t flinch. I spoke when silence was safer. I watched the world twist, and I stood straight, my passion an anchor. They threw stones—I used them to build stairs. Every scar, every headline… These were bricks. They fueled my stance. A wall of protection, greeting both foe and friend. I see the light now. Not metaphor. Not illusion. A real light. Blinding but beautiful. I walk toward it with open eyes, no hesitation. I did what I came to do. I did not bend. I did not break. Now, I rise brand new. I see the gates. They open, and I accept my fate. Beyond this Earthly dome, I'm going home.