Walking in the Afterglow

Chapter Five: Walking in the Afterglow

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Morning came slow, like it was being careful not to disturb the hush the night had left behind. And I remember standing there, the moon’s residue still soft on my skin, wondering if the world would notice the shift in me. If somehow the trees would nod in acknowledgment. If the pavement would feel kinder under my feet. If maybe just maybe the sky would look me in the eye and say, “I saw what happened last night. I saw you come home to yourself.”

But the world didn’t stop. It never does. Cars still honked. Phones still rang. People still wore masks, not the ones you can see, but the kind that hides pain behind polite smiles and tired eyes. And yet, something in me had changed.

I walked slower that morning.

Not because I was tired, but because I was aware. Aware of my steps, of my breath, of the quiet conversation still echoing in my soul from the night before. That silver soaked meditation under the moon hadn’t ended. It had simply moved inside me.

You see, that’s the thing about real moments with the divine they don’t need reminders. They become part of your rhythm. Like marrow in your bones. Like a hum in your chest. The moon didn’t just light up the night it lit up a part of me I had forgotten existed.

And now, I walk differently.

I don’t rush to respond anymore. I don’t chase validation like I used to. I’ve learned to sit with discomfort. To let silence answer questions that words cannot. I no longer feel guilty for needing solitude. That night taught me that alone doesn’t mean lonely. It means sacred.

My grandmother used to say, “You gotta carry your peace like perfume. Not to show off, but to remind your soul who you are when the wind gets wild.” And life has a way of getting wild, doesn’t it? Bills, heartbreak, disappointment, grief that doesn’t knock before it enters. But peace the kind born under moonlight and tears has a way of holding you upright even when your world bends sideways.

I think about the moon a lot now. Not just as a light in the night, but as a mirror. It doesn’t shine by itself, you know. It reflects. That’s all. Just a big, silent rock reflecting the sun’s light in a quiet, humble glow. And still, people write poems about her. Lovers kiss under her. Dreamers pray to her. Wolves howl for her. All because she reflects.

Maybe that’s our job too not to be the source of light, but to reflect it. To sit with the Sun long enough that we carry its warmth into cold rooms. To meditate until our scars become lanterns, guiding others out of their own darkness.

There are days when the moon hides. Nights when clouds roll thick and heavy. And still, I know she’s there. Just like I know the Creator is there when I can’t feel Him. Still present. Still patient. Still waiting in the wings of my worry.

It’s in that knowing not just believing that I find rest.

Because belief can waver. Belief asks for evidence. But knowing? Knowing is what keeps you from drowning when life’s waters rise. Knowing is what steadies your hand when everything around you is shaking. And that kind of knowing only comes from stillness. From sitting long enough with yourself that the noise of the world begins to dim, and the truth of who you are rises like a sun from within.

I think we all need a moon moment some kind of sacred pause that reminds us we’re not just bones and skin and regret. We’re spirit. We’re stardust. We’re stories still being written by a Hand that knows no mistakes.

Meditation has become less of a practice and more of a presence. I can feel it in the grocery store. In traffic. When someone cuts me off with their words. When I’m misunderstood again and the old anger tries to rise. That’s when I go back not physically, but inwardly to that willow tree. To that hush. To that moment where I met the part of myself that doesn’t need applause to feel worthy.

I carry that version of me now. And I protect him. I listen when he gets quiet. I trust his pace, even when the world screams for urgency. Because the moon didn’t rush to rise that night. She took her time. And still, she lit up everything.

If you’ve ever felt like your light isn’t enough, remember the moon. She doesn't compete with the sun. She doesn’t apologize for showing up late. She just waits for her time, and when it comes, she shines.

I’ve learned to be okay with not having all the answers. With not knowing what comes next. The moon taught me that cycles are sacred. That darkness doesn’t mean absence. That waning doesn’t mean weak it just means I’m making room for something new.

So if you’re in a dark night, I get it. I’ve been there. But don’t mistake silence for abandonment. Don’t confuse stillness with stagnation. Sometimes the most powerful things grow in the dark. Roots. Seeds. Souls.

Keep sitting. Keep breathing. Let your heart stretch without breaking. Let the moon be your reminder that even when you feel small and unseen, you are still part of something vast, ancient, and holy.

And when morning comes, walk slowly.

Not because you’re fragile, but because you’re carrying light now.

Light that doesn’t belong to this world.

Light that doesn’t need permission to shine.

Light that started with a whisper…

…and became a fire.