There’s something about buttoning a shirt that always reminds me I’m still learning how to be at home in my own skin. It’s not really about the shirt, though I do have a soft spot for the faded blue one with the stubborn third button. This morning, I stood at the kitchen counter, half-dressed and half-awake, coaxing that button through its tiny loop while the kettle hissed in the background. My hands were slow, a little clumsy, but patient, like they knew the fabric was as stubborn as I am.
Wearing my heart, stitch by stitch, feels a lot like that: small, ordinary, a little awkward, but honest. I used to think being open meant grand declarations or glittering displays, but most days, it’s quieter. It’s me, choosing to wear the shirt that feels most like me, even if it’s a little wrinkled, even if someone might side-eye my choice of neon socks. Maybe especially then.
Somewhere between the hum of the fridge and the first sip of tea, I realized I was humming an old song my mother used to sing when she thought no one was listening. I hadn’t planned it. It just slipped out, gentle and familiar, stitching warmth into the morning. I caught myself smiling, which felt like a small, secret thing. The kind of smile that doesn’t need a reason or an audience.
I think that’s what I mean by wearing my heart: letting the soft, odd, precious parts of me show, even on a sleepy Wednesday. Not for applause, not for anyone’s comfort but my own. Some days, that means sharing a story. Other days, it’s just humming in the kitchen, trusting the old shirt to hold me together.
If you’re out there, quietly piecing yourself together, I hope you know it’s enough. You don’t need to be dazzling. You don’t need to be anything but here, heart gently stitched in, ready for whatever this day brings. I’ll be here too, humming along, grateful for the softness.