This morning I woke up with my hand curled under my cheek, like I was trying to hold myself together in my sleep. Sometimes I wake up that way after a night full of weird dreams, the kind where I’m not really in danger but I can’t quite relax either. I lay there for a while, listening to the city noise, and tried to remember what I was so worried about. Nothing dramatic. Just a low hum, like background static.
I got up, made coffee, and caught my reflection in the microwave door. I looked like I always do—Black, a little sleepy, hair doing its own thing, soft shirt hanging loose. There’s a quiet relief in seeing myself, in not having to explain the world I grew up in or the way I move through it. I think about how long it took to feel gentle with myself, especially on mornings that start with leftover fear.
I texted my friend, just a good morning and a little joke about my bedhead. Their reply made me laugh, and for a second, I felt the kind of love that’s easy and safe. I remember when I used to second-guess messages like that. Wondered if it was too much, if I was too much. These days, I let myself send the text, let myself be soft for no reason except that I want to.
I’m still learning how to hold onto the gentle things, even when I’m afraid. It’s strange, how care can feel risky, even in the smallest ways. But right now, sitting here with my coffee, I notice the fear is quieter than it used to be. I’m not trying to get rid of it. I’m just not letting it be the loudest thing in the room.
I think that’s enough for today. Small, soft love. Not perfect, but real. It feels like something I can carry with me, even after the coffee gets cold.