I woke up today with the quiet kind of tired that lingers even after coffee. I used to think it meant I needed to fix something—sleep more, work less, call my mom, finally fold that pile of clean laundry that’s starting to look like a roommate. But today it just felt like a part of being here, in my own skin, in my own apartment, in my own little orbit.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I caught my reflection in the window. Just me, wrapped up in a hoodie that’s technically not mine anymore, hair a little uneven, face still soft from sleep. There’s this specific comfort in seeing myself as I am, not as I think I should be. Black, queer, and a little awkward. It’s not some big revelation, but it feels like a gentle truth I can rest in for a minute.
Sometimes I wonder if other people ever feel like guests in their own lives. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to sound “right” or look “right” for whatever room I’m in—family gatherings, queer spaces, the corner store. It’s a whole thing, carrying all these pieces of myself, hoping none of them get lost or left behind. Today, though, I’m just here. No performance, no translation, just me.
There’s a softness to these moments that I don’t always let myself have. Not every day feels like a celebration of identity. Some days are just quiet, honest, and a little bit messy. But in that soft light, I remember I exist for myself first. That’s not a big statement. It’s just a small fact, like how I take my coffee or the way I hum when I’m nervous.
I think I’ll let myself be here, for now. Just rooted, soft, and present. That feels enough.