Today I woke up with my body a little behind my mind. I sat at the edge of my bed, looking at the mess of my slippers, and for a second, I couldn’t tell if I was already myself or just the idea of myself, hovering around the edges. Sometimes I think queerness is like that—my own shape shifting just out of reach, not in a sad way, just gently, asking me to notice.
There’s this small, quiet comfort in knowing I can take my time. I don’t have to rush into feeling fully “here.” I can let my spirit linger, a soft echo, and it’s still me. My Blackness, my queerness, my awkward morning self—none of it waits for perfection. I’m allowed to be incomplete, a little blurry at the edges, and still belong.
I made coffee, not because I needed it, but because the ritual helps. I like the way the steam curls up, the way I can stand in the kitchen in my old t-shirt and not have to explain myself to anyone. It’s a small thing, but it makes me feel like I’m holding myself, quietly, with two hands. There’s nothing to fix. Just a small moment of being.
Sometimes I catch myself in the hallway mirror, and I smile because I look a little tired, a little soft, and very much like myself. My queerness is right there in the way I hold my shoulders, in the curve of my mouth. I don’t need to perform it or prove it. It just lingers with me, a gentle presence.
I think today I’ll let myself move slow. I’ll let the parts of me catch up to each other. There’s no hurry. I’m here, even when I’m not all the way here. That feels enough.