What the Monitor Cannot Measure

The monitor knows how to count— the pressure of blood, the rhythm of a heart, the quiet rise and fall of breath. But it cannot measure what it costs to ask again after asking once already made you feel like a burden. Tonight, I am angry. And anger is not a failure of grace. It is the part of me that still remembers I am worthy of being tended to. Tonight, I am hurting. Not only where my body aches, but in that tender place where fear gathers when no one explains what happens next. Tonight, I am scared. But breath still enters and leaves me. I am more than a pressure too low, a medication held back, or a room someone promised to return to. I am not difficult because I need relief. I am not too much because I need answers. I am a human being inside a hurting body, trying to make it safely through another night. And this night does not get the final word. Until morning finds me, I will keep one small porch light burning beside my heart— not because I am unafraid, but because fear is not the only thing still alive in me. I am here. I am breathing. And I am still worthy of gentleness.

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