There’s a weird peace in making tea at 7pm, knowing full well I’ll be up late scrolling anyway. I used to feel guilty about these small things, like I was supposed to have a routine by now, or at least better sleep hygiene. But I don’t. I’m here, cup in hand, doing what feels good for this version of me.
Tonight, I keep thinking about how my body keeps showing up, even when my mind wants to check out. I remember being younger, feeling like there was only one way to look, to talk, to walk through the world, especially with all the extra rules Black kids get handed. Then I got older, queerer, more myself, and the rules got fuzzier. Sometimes I still get nervous just existing in my own skin, but I try to notice the small wins — like how my shoulders drop a little lower when I laugh with someone who gets it.
I’m not always gentle with myself. There are days I pick apart my reflection, or replay awkward moments and wince. And I hate how easy it is to forget that I’ve survived every single “final” moment I was sure would end me. My body kept going, even on the days I felt like a puzzle missing its own picture.
I don’t have some wise wrap-up. I’m just glad I get to feel soft sometimes, even if it’s just for a few minutes with tea and a too-bright kitchen light. That’s enough for tonight.