Today I noticed I still apologize for being sensitive. It slips out so easily, like breathing. I’ll say sorry for tearing up at a commercial or for needing a second to collect myself when I get overwhelmed. Sometimes I even apologize to my own reflection, which is a little funny and a little sad, but mostly just true.
There’s a softness in me I’ve tried to iron out, especially around other Black folks or other queers who seem so sure of themselves, so unbothered. But I don’t think I’m meant for sharp edges. I’m the one who gets quiet at parties, who listens more than talks, who feels things all the way through. I used to think that made me less Black, less queer, less grown. Like I was missing some armor everyone else got at the door.
This morning, I caught myself about to apologize again—this time for crying a little at a friend’s text, just a simple “thinking of you.” I stopped. No one was there to see it, but it felt like a small shift, like I was finally sitting with myself instead of trying to explain myself away.
I think about how many years I’ve spent trying to be the right kind of tough. I wanted to be the cool queer, the unbothered Black friend. But the truth is, my softness is not a costume I can take off. It’s just me, showing up, even when I wish I could tuck it all in.
Right now, I’m letting myself be gentle about it. Not trying to fix anything, not trying to be more or less. Just letting the softness be here, with all its awkward, tender edges. There’s no lesson in it, really. Just me, sitting here, finally not saying sorry.