I’m thinking about how I always get a little nervous when someone compliments my nails. Today it was the cashier at the corner store, asking if I did them myself. I said yes, and he smiled like it was the coolest thing in the world. I smiled back, but my insides felt like a tiny animal caught in sunlight. It’s a small thing, but I still catch myself bracing for something sharp. Old habits from old places, I guess.
I’ve been painting my nails all sorts of blues and greens lately. It started out as a private thing, a little way to remind myself I’m allowed to take up space as I am. Black, queer, soft around the edges. Sometimes I worry I’m too much or not enough, depending on the room. There’s a quiet bravery in just showing up, hands and all. Some days it feels like nothing. Some days it feels like everything.
What I notice lately is how these tiny moments of being seen—really seen—don’t always feel loud or bright. They’re more like a gentle nudge, a reminder that my softness isn’t just tolerated, but maybe even appreciated. I still get shy about it. I still look for exits. But I also catch myself wanting to stay a little longer in these easy, honest exchanges.
I don’t always have big feelings about who I am. Sometimes it’s just the comfort of chipped polish, or the way my laugh sounds when I let my guard down. Today, I left the store with a fresh bag of chips and a small, good feeling sitting right next to my usual nerves. I think that’s enough for now.