authenticity isn’t always cute. we aren't always cute.

 

for some people, authenticity is big and loud and obvious. for others, it’s quieter — almost secret. mine shifts depending on the day. it’s rarely tidy.

for me, being real means doing an internal inventory. like scanning the storage chests in my minecraft base — what do i actually have? what parts of me are usable today? what’s been gathering dust? i work with what’s there. not the highlight reel. the scraps, the wonky bits, the stuff i wish i could trade in — that’s part of it too.

there are days when authenticity looks like soft clothes, canceled plans, and sitting with a feeling before deciding what it even is. there are days when it looks like stillness, not statements.

it’s not curated. it’s not crafted for approval. it’s just all of me showing up — even the odd, inconvenient, hard-to-summarize parts.

and that realness in its shifting, glitchy form is the thing that reminds me i’m not pretending to be here... i actually am here.