There is a difference between light that exposes you and light that receives you. This was the second kind.

As I continued to rise, the ground grew distant, and the sounds of the crowd faded into a soft echo. The air around me changed texture — from ordinary atmosphere into something finer, almost like breathing through light itself. The sky no longer felt like a ceiling. It felt like a doorway I was passing through.

Ahead of me, a brightness appeared. It was not harsh. It did not burn my eyes. It was the kind of light that feels familiar even when you have never seen it before in this lifetime. The closer I came, the more I sensed that this was not just light — it was awareness.

I did not crash into it. I was welcomed into it. The rising slowed into a gentle arrival, like a child being lifted into waiting arms. I felt seen in a way that went beyond my current name, body, or history. This light recognized me at a level deeper than memory.

There were no human faces there, yet I did not feel alone. The presence inside the light was layered — ancient, patient, unhurried. It carried the calm authority of a place that is never surprised, because it already knows the full story.

In that embrace, all the tension I did not realize I had been carrying — the pressure of being watched, the weight of rising, the questions about why this was happening — all of it loosened. I felt held, not as a spectacle, but as something beloved and intentional.

The declaration from below — “Your power is not from earth” — now made sense at a deeper level. The light receiving me was not just a destination; it was the Source that had called me long before the dream began.

Suspended inside that radiance, I understood: I was not just rising to something. I was returning to where my assignment had been written.