Today I caught myself smiling at my own reflection while brushing my teeth. Not in a big way, just a tiny upturn at the corners, like I’d surprised myself with a good mood. My hair is still uneven from last week’s half-hearted trim, and I can see the little patch that refuses to curl like the rest. I let it be. It feels like I’m getting better at letting things be, even when they’re just my own stubborn hair.
I think a lot about how much of my life has been spent trying to make things smoother, easier, more acceptable for other people. The way I talk, the way I walk, the way I laugh around strangers. There’s a softness in me that used to feel like something to hide, but lately it’s just there, humming along quietly in the background. Being Black and queer still feels like a private club with a secret handshake, only now I don’t mind if someone sees me practicing it in public.
This morning, the quiet felt less like emptiness and more like space. I made coffee and scrolled through my phone, reading texts from friends who know the exact right emoji to send. I felt seen in a way that didn’t require any performance from me. That’s new. Or maybe it’s not new, just something I finally noticed.
There’s a small feeling in my chest, like the first moment after a deep exhale, when you realize you’re still here and nothing bad happened. I like that feeling. It’s not dramatic or loud, just real. I’m starting to trust that healing can look like this—ordinary, gentle, and slow. Not a fix, just a quiet acceptance that I get to be here, exactly like this.
Tonight, I’ll probably watch bad reality TV and eat cereal for dinner. That’s all right. There’s a softness in the ordinary, and it feels like enough.