Woman Before the Rising Sun, Caspar David Friedrich

You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine…

Such gentle, romantic words from such a gentle song.
Soft enough to feel safe, simple enough to believe without questioning.

But when someone says, “you are my sunshine,” I find myself asking:
What does it really mean?

The Sun is everything we associate with warmth and life.
It nourishes. It grows. It makes existence possible. 
And yet, that same Sun burns.
It dries. It exhausts.

Not out of intention, not out of emotion, but simply because this is what it is.

Everything revolves around it — not because it is loved, but because it cannot be escaped.

And maybe that is the part we don’t really think about.

That the same source that feeds us is also, slowly and inevitably, consuming us.

The Sun is not doing us a favor. It is not choosing to give, and it is not choosing to take.
It simply exists in its own nature, and everything else learns how to live with it — or doesn’t.

And I think that is why the word “sunshine” has never felt entirely soft to me.

Because some people are like that.

Not necessarily cruel.
Not necessarily kind either.

Just… intense in a way that changes things.

They don’t enter your life with a clear intention to transform you.
But their presence alone makes that transformation almost unavoidable.

If not you, then someone else.
If not now, then eventually.

And sometimes, without even realizing it, the ones who need change the most
are the ones who move closest to that kind of light.

But maybe the real question was never about transformation.

Because it will happen anyway. It always does.

The real question is what kind of change you are standing close to.

Will it warm you enough to grow, to become something fuller, more alive?

Or will it take everything you have built and slowly burn it down, piece by piece?

I might be your sunshine.

But light is never just light.

Will I warm you, help you grow into something fuller, more alive — or will I draw a circle of fire around you and keep you there until there is nothing left but something dry enough to burn?

Is there even a middle ground, or is that just something we tell ourselves to stay a little longer?

Please don’t take my sunshine away…

What happens after you find your sun?

Do you stay close out of warmth or out of fear of losing it?

Do you begin to orbit, slowly forgetting your own direction?

Everyone needs transformation at some point.
The Sun is transformative by its very existence.

But again — it is not the Sun.

It is you.

Is it up to you what to do with this force placed into your life?

Will your snow withstand the light, or disappear beneath it?

So, what will you do?

Will you use the brightness to clear your vision, or let it blind you?

Will you keep moving closer, mistaking the brightness for safety?

Or will you recognize the heat for what it is and trace back the quiet marks
it has already left on you?

Again, the light was never the question.

It was always you.

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