Today, I woke up feeling like I’d left a piece of myself somewhere between my bed and the kitchen. Maybe it’s just the way the morning light hits differently when you’re trying to remember who you are before the world tells you. I stood in front of the fridge for a while, pretending to decide on breakfast, but really just listening to the low hum and noticing how quiet my apartment can feel.
There’s something about being Black and queer that makes these quiet moments feel layered. My queerness isn’t loud today. It’s sitting with me quietly, like a friend who doesn’t need to say much. I think about my family group chat blowing up with memes and Sunday plans, and how I sometimes edit myself before I reply—just a little. Not to hide, but to soften the edges. It’s a habit that’s hard to shake, even in these small, safe corners of my life.
I laugh at myself for worrying about something as simple as a text. There’s a gentle humor in knowing I can be both bold and cautious, sometimes in the same breath. I catch my own reflection in the microwave and make a silly face, because honestly, that’s the kind of softness I need today. No big declarations, just a quiet reminder that I’m allowed to take up space, even if it’s just in my own kitchen.
My courage doesn’t always look like what people think. Sometimes it’s just making coffee in my favorite chipped mug and letting myself feel a little awkward, a little tender. I notice I’m breathing easier. The world is still loud, but here, I get to be soft. That feels like enough for now.