I woke up this morning with that ache in my shoulder again, the one that likes to remind me I’m not a cartoon character who bounces back after every fall. Sometimes I wish my body would send me a text instead of these little twinges, like “Hey, maybe don’t sleep on your side tonight.” But this is how I get my reminders: a small ache, a slow exhale, a quiet truth from my own skin.
I looked at myself in the mirror, in my favorite old tee, the one that’s seen me through a lot. There’s something about seeing my Black skin, my soft belly, my queer self, all at once, that makes me pause. I used to avoid the mirror. Now I just sort of nod at myself, like “Yeah, you’re still here. Still you.” Some mornings that feels like enough.
My hair is doing its own thing today, half-curl, half-defiant. I let it. I don’t have the energy to force it into something it’s not. There’s a quiet queerness in that, I think—a little act of letting myself be as I am, not as I’m supposed to look. Growing up, I learned to tuck things in, to smooth things out. These days, I try to let a few things stay wild, even if it’s just my hair or my laugh.
The world outside is loud, and I’m not always sure where I fit. But here, in my body, with all its soft warnings and quiet strengths, I get to be honest. I get to say, “I’m tired today,” or “I feel good in this skin right now.” That’s not a big thing, but it feels real.
I don’t have a neat way to wrap this up. I guess I just wanted to say that sometimes, being gentle with myself is the truest thing I can do. And today, that feels like enough.