A job you never applied for

You worked a second job every day, and nobody paid you. Mints in every pocket. The jacket left by the door. The bathroom trip timed just right. A story ready in case anyone asked. And always the math of how long you had after a cigarette before someone got close. You worked the shift without once calling it work.

You didn't get better at that job. The job was abolished. Getting better would mean still checking, still carrying mints just in case. Abolished means the desk is cleared and the lights are off. The cigarette hired you for a job with no pay and no days off.

Hiding costs more than anyone admits. Some part of you was always braced for a person standing a little too close. You couldn't feel that weight while you carried it. God has never needed you managed before He'd come near. Now you feel the difference every time you walk toward someone. You're not getting ready for them anymore. You're just arriving.

Catch the difference on purpose today. Walk into a room with nothing arranged. No timing, no mint, no seat picked for the airflow. Hug the first person you're glad to see, no check first. Feel how little it costs now. That lightness is honesty, all the way down to your body. Walk in as you are.