I woke up this morning feeling like my body was a little too loud for the room. My hair was smashed on one side and my voice came out in that croaky, morning way that always makes me laugh. Sometimes I forget how much tenderness I need until I catch myself checking the mirror for signs of being “put together” before I’ve even had coffee. It’s an old habit, and it sticks around even when I’m the only one home.
There’s something about being Black and queer that makes me extra aware of how I move through the world, even in my own apartment. I’ve learned I don’t have to armor up for the living room, but my brain still tries. I see it in how I straighten my hoodie, how I pull my knees in on the couch, how I pause before letting myself just be. Some days, I let the armor slide off a little easier.
This morning, I sat with my first cup of coffee and let myself just exist. I didn’t try to fix my hair. I didn’t scroll through my phone to make sure I was up on the latest thing. I just let the quiet be there, the way you let a friend sit next to you without needing to say anything. It felt like a soft welcome, not a grand gesture. Just a little nod to myself that I’m allowed here, however I show up.
Queerness, for me, is a lot about these small permissions. I used to think I had to perform it right—be the right kind of visible, the right kind of proud, the right kind of soft. But this morning, I was just a person with lopsided hair and a warm mug, letting the world spin without me for a minute. That felt like enough.
I think I’ll carry that feeling through the day, or at least until I forget and have to remind myself again. That’s okay. There’s room for me here, in all my versions. And I’m learning to open the door for myself, every time.