I woke up slow today. Not the kind of slow that means I don’t want to get up, but the kind that lets me notice how my body feels in pieces. My right shoulder is a little sore, my skin feels extra soft against the sheets, and my breath is a little deeper than usual. I’m just here, in this body, Black and queer and still a little sleepy. Sometimes I forget I’m allowed to feel this gentle.
I caught myself smiling in the bathroom mirror. Not a big, dramatic grin, just a small, easy thing. My hair’s a little wild, and I look like myself. That’s been feeling like enough lately. I remember a time when I’d stare and try to fix something, tug at my hair, adjust my face, stand a certain way to look less “other.” I don’t do that anymore, or at least not today.
There’s something soft about letting myself be this ordinary. I think about the way I move through the world, a little careful, a little open, sometimes too visible and sometimes not enough. I used to think I had to harden up just to exist in public, make myself sharper, less inviting, less me. I don’t know when that started to change, but I can feel it now. It’s not a big revolution, just a quiet shift. I still flinch sometimes, but less than before.
I make my coffee and sit by the window, phone buzzing with group chat nonsense. I type a little joke about my bedhead, and someone sends back a heart. That tiny thing lands softer than I expect. I don’t need to armor up today. I can just sit here, warm cup in hand, letting the sun find me just as I am.
Maybe that’s what it is: softness means I’m still here, still myself, still standing. Not in spite of anything, just because. That feels like a small truth worth holding, at least for this morning.