I keep thinking about how weird it is to trust in something as small as a new start. I woke up today and felt this soft nervousness, like the way my hands feel when I’m about to message someone new. I always think I’ll mess it up, or that I’ll accidentally sound like a robot. But there’s this small voice in me—queer and stubborn and a little tired—that still wants to try.
Sometimes I get caught up in the way I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. I stand there, hair a little wild, skin soft and brown and mine. I see the little shifts in my face from yesterday, the way my jaw tenses, how my eyes look less afraid than they used to. It’s not some big self-love moment. It’s just me noticing that I don’t want to hide as much as I did last week.
I think about how queerness feels like that too. Not an announcement, just a quiet permission to exist in a way that feels right in my bones. I remember a moment this morning, standing in my kitchen, pouring coffee and humming a song from my childhood. I caught myself smiling for no reason. I didn’t need a reason. I was just here, in my body, with all the old worries and a new sort of calm.
There’s a gentleness in letting myself want things, even if it’s just the hope that today will be a little softer than yesterday. I don’t have a grand plan. I have this moment, and the feeling that maybe I can trust it. That’s enough for now.