My Own Stained Glass

I used to imagine a coherent life as one without fractures.

Straight lines. Unbroken glass. A narrative that did not require interpretation.

But life does not arrive that way. It arrives like something dropped, then gathered again with care that cannot fully erase the break.

There are parts of me that do not align perfectly with the parts that came before. Some edges still show where the impact happened. Some colours only make sense when the light hits them at a certain angle.

And yet, I am learning not to apologise for that.

Because stained glass was never less valuable for being broken. It was made by breaking, then reassembling into something that only works because light is willing to pass through the fractures.

There are seasons where I want to hide the seams, to present a smoother surface, to pretend continuity where there is none.

But truth is not always smooth. Sometimes it is luminous in spite of interruption.

Perhaps what we call damage is only the place where light learned a new way to enter.

Nugget: Brokenness is not the absence of design, it is often where design becomes visible.