There’s a way some folks see you before you even know how to see yourself. It’s like the old song playing low in the background, humming along before the words ever make sense. I think about that when I remember the time Aunty Diane slid a plate across the table to me at her kitchen, steam curling up from the greens. She didn’t say much, just looked at me over her glasses and asked if I wanted hot sauce, her tone saying she already knew the answer.
I was still learning the shape of myself back then, still figuring out how to sit in my own skin. I didn’t have the language for it, not really. But Aunty had this way of seeing all the quiet things you held close, like she could spot your whole self before you were ready to let it out. She just kept talking about the neighbors’ business, her voice steady and easy, while she made sure my plate was full. No big declarations, just a gentle nod, the kind that let me know I was safe to be exactly how I was.
It’s funny how a moment like that can settle into you, softer than you’d expect. I didn’t realize until later how rare it is to be seen without having to explain yourself, to be recognized by someone who knows the same songs, the same codes, the same reasons you laugh a little too loud. There’s a relief in it, like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.
Sometimes, belonging feels like a plate of greens and a bottle of hot sauce within reach. Not loud or fancy, just steady hands and a seat at the table. That’s how I know I’m home.