This morning, I woke up with that ache in my shoulder again. It’s the kind of pain that makes you roll over and sigh, like your bones are reminding you that you’re not as young as you pretend to be on the dance floor. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if anyone else thinks their body is secretly plotting against them. Probably, but I still felt alone in it.
I have this habit of ignoring small pains, like if I don’t give them attention, maybe they’ll get bored and leave. But today, I just let myself feel it. I didn’t rush to fix it or push past it. My body didn’t ask for a solution, just a little recognition. So I pressed my hand against my shoulder and let myself be there, sore and soft, for a minute.
Being Black and queer in this world sometimes means feeling like I have to prove my existence is worth the space it takes up. I forget that my body knows me better than anyone else does. It’s not just a thing I move around in — it’s the place I come home to, even when I’m frustrated or tired or wishing my reflection looked different. This body, with its history and its stubborn shoulder, has always held me.
I thought about how many years I spent trying to shrink myself, or make myself easier for other people to understand. It’s wild how easy it is to forget that I don’t have to apologize for being here. My body, in all its queer, Black tenderness, has always welcomed me back, no matter how many times I’ve wanted to disappear.
So I got out of bed a little slower. I made my coffee and let the sunlight hit my face. It wasn’t a big moment, just a quiet one. But it was enough. My body still hurts, but I feel a little more at home in it today. That’s all I needed.