I woke up this morning with my hair doing something weird. Not the cute kind of weird, but the “my bonnet slipped off in the night and now I look like I lost a fight” kind of weird. I stood in the bathroom, staring at my reflection, trying to smooth things down with water and hope. Sometimes I wish I could just snap my fingers and look how I want, but that’s never really been my story.
I think about all the ways I’ve tried to fit in. The code-switching, the careful picking of outfits, the way I’d lower my voice in certain rooms. Being Black and queer, you learn to read a room fast. You learn what’s safe, what’s not, and when to just keep your mouth shut. But lately, I’ve been letting myself be a little more open, even if it’s just in the quiet of my own apartment.
There’s a small rebellion in letting myself laugh out loud at a dumb meme, or wearing the purple nail polish I like, even if it chips after a day. I don’t know if anyone else notices, but I do. I notice the way I relax when I let my softness show, even in tiny ways. It’s not about being brave. It’s just about being tired of hiding the little things that make me feel like me.
Some days, loving myself feels like a slow, awkward dance. Not graceful, not always comfortable, but mine. I’m learning to be okay with that. I don’t need a grand reason to feel good in my skin today. Sometimes, it’s enough to smile at my lopsided hair and call it cute anyway. That’s more than I gave myself yesterday, and for now, I think that’s enough.