I notice it almost every day.

Not always openly.
Not always aggressively.
But enough to feel it.

The looks last a little longer than they should.
Questions come wrapped in curiosity that isn’t really curiosity.
Sometimes it’s surprise. Sometimes caution. Sometimes silent judgment.

I’m a Black woman, and for some people, that’s still something they don’t know how to process naturally.

What makes it strange is that I’m not doing anything unusual.
I’m just living. Walking. Working. Laughing. Being myself.
And yet, my presence alone becomes a statement to others.

At first, it bothered me more.
I wondered what people were thinking.
What assumptions they were making before I even spoke.

With time, I understood something important:
those looks say more about them than about me.

I don’t owe anyone comfort.
I don’t owe explanations for my existence.
I don’t need to fit into someone else’s idea of what feels familiar.

Being a Black woman has taught me strength in a quiet way.
Not loud resistance — but self-respect.
The ability to walk forward without shrinking, even when the room feels uncomfortable.

I’ve learned to hold my posture, my calm, my dignity.
To let my actions speak before stereotypes do.
And to remember that visibility is not a flaw.

I am not here to be invisible.
I am here to live fully, confidently, and honestly.

And if that makes some people uncomfortable —
that’s not my burden to carry.