I woke up today tired in a way that felt old, like the kind of tired that sits behind your eyes and doesn’t budge. I scrolled through my phone and saw a meme about introverts being “just shy extroverts.” I laughed, but honestly, I felt a little invisible. Sometimes it feels like the world wants me to yell my truth in neon, but I’m quieter than that. I’m soft in the way a worn-in hoodie is soft. I don’t want to be a spectacle, just here.
I made coffee and sat by the window, watching my neighbor’s kid draw rainbows in chalk on the sidewalk. I felt a tiny pinch of joy seeing those colors, but also a tiny ache. There’s something about seeing a rainbow out in the open that makes my chest feel both proud and nervous. I remember being a kid and hiding anything that felt too loud, too bright, too queer. Now, I’m grown and still sorting out what feels safe to show and what I want to keep close.
Sometimes I think about how much energy it takes to move through the world as a Black queer person. Even sitting by my window, I notice the way I hold myself, the way I check if my music is too loud or my laugh is too much. I know it’s a kind of shield, this gentle holding back. It’s not fear exactly, but a quiet, careful kind of love for myself. Maybe it’s okay to be soft and careful, to let my shields be tender instead of hard.
There’s a comfort in knowing I don’t have to be loud to be real. My queerness doesn’t need to be a parade every day. Some days, it’s just me, my coffee, and a little rainbow outside. That’s enough.