I woke up this morning and the first thing I noticed was how different my face looks in the mirror when I’m not bracing for something. I’m not sure when I started doing that—clenching my jaw, holding my breath before the day even starts. Today, though, my cheeks were just my cheeks, round and soft. I made a little face at myself, just to see if I could laugh before coffee. It felt like a small victory, which I guess is the kind I like best.
There’s this gentle quiet in my apartment that sometimes feels like a friend, sometimes like a test. I used to fill every silence with music or calls, but lately, I’m letting the hush be what it is. I sit on my couch and let my body feel heavy, not tense. My queer body, my Black body, just existing—in the quiet, in the softness of morning. It’s not a big deal, but it matters to me.
Sometimes I remember being younger and thinking softness was something I had to earn, or something I’d lose if I wasn’t careful. I don’t think that’s true anymore. Or, at least, I don’t need it to be. I’m allowed to want gentleness, to want to be gentle, even if the world outside is loud and sharp.
Right now, I don’t need to prove anything. I just want to notice the way my shoulders drop when I let myself feel safe, even for a few minutes. That’s enough for today. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel different, but tonight, I’m still here—soft, present, and a little bit proud of that.