There’s this thing that happens when I’m not looking for it—a softness sneaking up on me from my TV screen, just when I thought I was only here to pass the time. That’s what I mean by unexpected comfort. Like, I’m curled up in sweats, eating cereal straight out the box, and suddenly a scene catches me feeling seen in a way I didn’t even know I needed.
So, I was watching this one show (not naming names, but it’s got a lot of messy queer folks and found family vibes—my kind of chaos). There’s this moment, real quick, where a character—Black, femme, loud in the best way—just laughs. Not a polite sitcom giggle, but a full belly, head-thrown-back, unapologetic laugh. And the camera actually lets her have it. Nobody shushes her. Nobody looks uncomfortable. She gets to take up space, loud and soft at the same time.
That hit me. I’m sitting there, spoon halfway to my mouth, thinking about all the times I’ve shrunk myself in rooms that felt too small for all my Blackness and all my queerness at once. How sometimes, even in queer spaces, it feels like I have to pick which part of me gets to show up. But this character? She’s just out here, laughing, being all of herself, and the world doesn’t crumble. It’s such a tiny thing, but it’s not nothing. It’s this little permission slip, like, “Hey, you can breathe here. You can be all the things, all at once.”
So yeah, I paused the show for a second just to sit with it. Let myself feel a little more possible. Some days, comfort is a warm blanket. Other days, it’s a loud, Black, queer laugh on screen reminding me I don’t have to shrink for anybody. And that? That’s a soft kind of magic I’ll gladly let sneak up on me again.