It’s weird how heavy things can get when you’re not even sure how they ended up in your hands. I caught myself holding onto an old expectation today. Not the loud kind, but the sneaky, quiet one that sits in your chest and makes you feel like you should be someone a little bit different. I don’t even remember when I picked it up. Probably back in high school, when I thought being Black and queer meant I had to be twice as much of everything, just to be seen.
This morning, I woke up feeling that familiar edge of discomfort, like my skin didn’t quite fit right. I made my coffee, scrolled through my phone, and tried to laugh at something dumb online. But underneath, there was this small ache. I realized it was that old voice again, telling me I should be more productive, more impressive, less soft, less me. Sometimes I wish those voices would just text me a warning before showing up.
I sat at my kitchen table in my oldest t-shirt, and let myself just be tired. Not tired in a poetic way, but tired like, “I don’t want to perform for anybody right now.” There’s a quiet relief in admitting that. Not everything I carry belongs to me. Some of it’s just stuff I picked up so people wouldn’t look at me too long, or so they’d look at me the right way.
It’s funny, being queer and Black, how much of my life has been about holding things together, even when I’m not sure what I’m holding. But today, I put a little of it down. Not in a big, dramatic way—just a small shift, like letting my shoulders drop. I’m still here, still soft, still me. That feels enough for today.
I think I’ll make another cup of coffee and see if I can laugh at something dumb again. Some days, that’s all the softness I need.