What to Do With My Arms

Lately, I’ve been trying something new.

I’m not curating the experience.
I’m not forcing connection.
I’m not providing insight or entertainment on demand.

I’m just… arriving.

And it’s making me feel acutely aware of myself, unexpectedly.

Not in a self-love way. Not in a “finally at peace” way. More in the way you feel when someone pulls out a camera, and suddenly you have no idea what to do with your arms.

They’ve been attached to your body your whole life.
They’ve always worked just fine.
But now? Now they feel suspicious. Too long. Too present. Slightly wrong.

Do they hang? Do they cross? Do they do something casual but not too casual? Why are they even here?

That’s what arriving feels like.

When I’m not managing the moment, not reading the room, not adjusting myself to be easier, warmer, more useful, I notice how much I used to do without realizing it.

I filled silences.
I softened edges.
I anticipated needs.
I offered meaning before anyone asked for it.

Not because I was asked to.
Because it made connection feel safer.

Now that I’m not doing that, there’s space.
And space is uncomfortable.

It leaves me standing there, aware of my own presence.
Aware of my tone.
Aware of the impulse to step in and smooth things over.

This is the part no one romanticizes about “being yourself.”

There’s a stretch of time where you’re not performing anymore, but you also don’t quite know how to rest inside yourself yet.

You’re just… there.

Like arms with no choreography.

And I’m starting to suspect that this awkwardness isn’t a problem to solve.

It’s a recalibration.

A nervous system learning it doesn’t have to earn belonging through usefulness.
A body realizing it can take up space without doing anything impressive.