I was washing strawberries this morning, half-awake and humming something I can’t remember now. There’s something about running water and fruit that makes me feel like I’m already doing alright, even before the day really gets going. My hands were sticky from the juice, and I noticed how careful I was being not to squish the soft ones. I thought, Kabal, you’re always so gentle with everything but yourself.
It’s funny how confidence isn’t some big, loud thing. Most days, it just peeks out in small ways, like letting myself eat the ugly strawberry first because it’s still sweet. I used to think I had to be bold, the kind of person who walks into a room and everyone feels it. But here I am, finding a quiet sort of pride in knowing what I like, in the way I laugh at my own jokes when no one’s around.
There’s this softness in me that feels queer, like it belongs to the kind of love that doesn’t need to explain itself. It’s in the way I catch my own reflection and don’t flinch. It’s in letting myself sing off-key, in the kitchen, with my hair wild and my heart a little less guarded than yesterday.
Sometimes I wish confidence would show up all at once, but honestly, I kind of like that it’s learning me slowly. Today it looked like me eating strawberries in my own way, not worrying about the mess, not rushing to clean it up. I guess that’s the kind of unfolding I can trust—small, sweet, and quietly mine.
Maybe that’s all I need right now. A little softness, a little mess, and the slow, sure feeling that I’m becoming someone I actually want to know.