April Showers

  by April Davis Lately, I’ve been getting a lot of compliments. In every area of life - professional, personal, intimate.You name it. And for the first time in a long time, I’m starting to let them land. I didn’t always feel worthy of them. Not until I realized just how fucking hard I’ve worked to get here. Years of facing the ugliest parts of myself. Years of cutting off people who drained me, building boundaries from scratch, walking away from spaces that didn’t sit right - or letting them walk away from me. That kind of work doesn’t show up in highlight reels. But it’s the reason I’m standing here now. In this space. I used to shrink when people noticed. Literally. Like I didn’t know what to do with being praised, or celebrated, or acknowledged for the “something” they were drawn to. But I’m learning not to flinch anymore. Not to minimize what I’ve grown into. I’ve faced the version of me that stayed quiet. That played along. That never spoke up. I hated her for a long time - f...

Sometimes I still hear it— that boisterous, throw-your-head-back laugh. The kind that made his curls bounce like they had something to say too. God, it was loud. Loud in the best way. The kind of loud that made you laugh even if you didn’t know why. He was joy. Big and uncontainable. But there were quieter things, too. Like the way he’d shake his head when he watched TV with the kitchen light on. His Tourette’s would slip out soft but sharp— like his body was protesting the chaos he didn’t say out loud. Flick. Twitch. Stillness. Flick again. Trying to stay. Trying to just be. I didn’t always talk about it. Didn’t always ask. I just sat nearby, pretending not to notice so he wouldn’t feel different. But I noticed. Of course I did. Every flick, every shift— I memorized them without meaning to. And now I leave the kitchen light off. Even when I need it. Even when I’m alone. Because some part of me still thinks he might walk in, toss his curls, laugh at...