Sometimes writing feels like letting a bee land on my hand, hoping it’ll just rest there, but knowing it might sting. That’s the thing about sitting with a feeling before it becomes a line. I was working on a piece last week, just another Tuesday, and a line showed up that I didn’t ask for: “I want to be quiet in a loud world.” It arrived raw, no filter, like it had been waiting for me to slow down and catch up.
I felt it in my chest before my head made sense of it. There was a little ache, not painful, just sharp enough to remind me I’m alive and still changing. Sometimes I forget how much of my writing starts in my body, not my mind. Being Black and queer, I’m used to carrying a lot in my skin before I ever touch the page. The tenderness sneaks in, even when I think I’m writing about something else. I used to resist it, try to keep things neat, but I’m learning that messiness is where the real stuff hides out.
Drafts come out tangled. I want to smooth them right away, but I’m starting to let them breathe, even if it stings a little. There’s a softness in being honest, even if it means admitting I don’t always know what I’m trying to say. The line that surprised me—about wanting to be quiet—felt like a tiny rebellion, a way of holding my own gentleness without apology.
I guess I’m learning to trust the sting, even when it’s uncomfortable. Sometimes the words hurt before they heal. That’s just part of it. Today, I’m letting the line sit with me, still a little sharp, but softer than before. Maybe that’s enough.