This morning I caught myself in the bathroom mirror, halfway through brushing my teeth, and just stared for a second. My hair was doing its usual thing, half curl, half rebellion, and I felt a little pang, but not the old sharp one. Just a quiet, familiar ache. I looked at my face and thought, okay, you’re still here, soft edges and all. That’s enough for right now.
I used to try to make myself smaller in these moments, or sharper, or something less complicated. Today I just let my shoulders drop. I remembered how my aunt would call me “baby” in that way only Black aunties do, like softness is expected of me, not something to be hidden. It felt safe, even if I didn’t understand it then.
Queerness is a funny thing. Some days it’s loud and bright and messy, but most days it’s just me, moving through my apartment in socks, humming to a song only I know. I still get surprised by how much tenderness I need—how much I want to show it, even if it’s just to my own reflection. There’s a comfort in not having to armor up before breakfast.
I think about the way I hold my own hands sometimes, absentminded, like I’m reminding myself that softness isn’t something I have to earn. It’s just there, built into me, even when I’m tired or anxious or feeling too much. I don’t need to make it a big deal. It’s enough that I notice it.
Today, I feel a little more human because I let myself be soft, even in the smallest way. The world is still loud and weird and too much, but right now, I’m just here, gentle with myself, and that feels like a quiet kind of belonging.