Today I caught myself feeling everything a little too much, which is my usual. I was standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle, and I realized my chest was doing that familiar ache. It’s not a sad ache, just the way my body says, “Hey, you’re alive and you care a lot.” Sometimes I wish I came with an emotional dimmer switch, but honestly, I’d probably just turn it up and then laugh about it later.
It’s a little funny how I used to think being soft made me stand out in a way I didn’t want. Black and queer and tender — it’s a lot to hold, especially when the world expects sharp edges. But here I am, soft anyway, crying at commercials and tearing up when my friends send me voice notes. My queerness never felt like something I could separate from my sensitivity. They both sit together, close, sometimes tangled up.
There’s this quiet shift that happens when I stop fighting the part of me that feels deeply. I notice I breathe easier. I let myself laugh at my own dramatic sighs. I let the small things matter — the text from a friend, the memory of my cousin braiding my hair too tight, the way I still mumble to myself when I’m nervous.
I guess today I’m just letting myself be all of it. Not trying to press my feelings into something smaller or quieter. It’s not a big revelation, just a soft sort of okay-ness. I don’t have to be less. I can be Black, queer, and gentle, and let my feelings take up space, even if it’s just in my kitchen while the water boils.