Some mornings I wake up and the world feels like a soft sweater pulled over my head. I listen to the quiet hum of my apartment, the way the morning light slips in sideways, dust motes swirling like tiny dancers. There is something gentle about this hour, before the world asks anything from me, before I’ve even decided what to wear. It’s here, in the hush, that I remember the quiet joy of trusting my own skin.
Today, I reach for my favorite pair of loose cotton shorts, the ones that have faded in the way only well-loved things do. A tank top follows, buttery and worn-in, clinging just enough to remind me I’m here. My body, wide and soft, settles into the fabrics like a sigh. I let my hands smooth over my belly, the curve of my hip, the roundness that is mine alone. There’s no rush. No need to squeeze or cinch or tuck. Just the simple act of dressing for comfort, for the way it feels instead of the way it looks.
In this small ritual, I find a sweetness that makes me smile. It’s almost funny how much pleasure I get from these little acts of care. I think about how my grandma used to say, “If it don’t feel good, don’t wear it, baby.” There’s wisdom in that. Sometimes the quietest joys are the ones we almost miss—the brush of cotton against skin, the way my chest rises and falls, the freedom to take up as much space as I need. Fat joy, queer joy, Black joy—they’re all stitched into this morning, right here in the softness of my own room.
I notice, as I move through the kitchen to make tea, that I’m walking differently. Not holding myself in, not bracing for anything. Just… letting myself be soft. There’s a quiet realization in that, a gentle kind of pride. I don’t need to armor up for the day. I can let my body be exactly what it is—tender, round, alive.
The kettle whistles and I pour my cup, feeling the warmth curl through my hands. I sit by the window, legs tucked under, and breathe in the stillness. In this moment, there’s nothing to fix. Nothing to hide. Just the quiet joy of being at home in my own skin, held by comfort and morning light. And that, I think, is enough.