Today I noticed how I keep pausing in the middle of washing dishes, just to let the water run over my hands a little longer. It’s not really about the dishes. I think I just like the quiet in the kitchen, the easy repetition. There’s something gentle about being alone in a space that’s fully mine, even if I’m just standing there with a mug and a sponge.
I thought about how I used to rush through everything, trying to prove I could do it all. Maybe it’s a queer thing, maybe it’s just me, but I don’t feel that urgency today. I let myself move slow, let the water go warm, and that feels like a small win. There’s a softness in me that I used to hide. It creeps out now in these little ways, and I’m not mad about it.
Sometimes I catch my reflection in the microwave door and I look so much like myself it feels funny. I used to look for signs that I belonged, but now I just stand here, Black and queer and soft, and it’s enough. I don’t need a big moment to know I’m here. The gentle ones are louder than I thought.
I guess I’m learning that holding on to gentle moments isn’t about clinging. It’s just noticing when they show up, even if it’s between rinse and repeat. I let myself stay a little longer today. That feels good. That feels like me.