Soft Things I Carry

Most people don’t know this about me—probably because I keep my tenderness tucked away—but I’m actually a huge softie. A quiet one. The kind that falls in love with small moments no one else notices. And no, I don’t mean just in relationships. I mean in the way I move through the world. I like to find meaning in little things.

I love slow mornings.

My morning routine usually starts with me trying to hug my cat—emphasis on trying. She immediately tries to escape, but I still hold her like a little hostage for a few seconds. Just enough to feel like I got my emotional support animal moment before she goes back to pretending she doesn’t love me. 

I take a long, hot shower. I wash my face. I do my makeup. I put on an outfit that makes me feel good—one where the fabric feels nice against my skin and the fit just clicks. I move slowly, without rushing. I like giving myself that care.

Then I make breakfast. And yes, I make avocado toast.

I love my fucking avocado toast, and I don’t care what anyone says about it. There’s something sacred about it. About taking the time to toast the bread just right, slice the avocado perfectly, season it with intention. It’s a small ritual, but it’s mine. And it makes me feel grounded.

I think that’s the kind of person I am—someone who collects rituals and tender moments. Someone who moves slowly when the world says to rush.

That’s probably why I like eating alone sometimes. Cafés. Diners. Even fast food spots. Just to sit. Just to watch. Just to be.

One day, I decided to eat inside at Chick-fil-A. Not for any big reason—just because I wanted to slow down. When I walked up to the counter, the guy working—probably a teenager—was multitasking, restocking cups and bouncing between tasks. He hadn’t seen me at first, but when he did, he looked up and said, “Oh, sorry!”

I smiled and said, “It’s okay. Take your time—I’m not in a rush.”

And I really wasn’t. I just wanted to be there, in that moment.

I thanked him for every small thing—when he handed me my change, my cup and receipt. He seemed to ease up a little. Maybe the kindness helped. Maybe it didn’t. But I like to think those small things add up.

Then I sat down and just… let myself be. No phone. No distractions. Just me, my food, and the quiet buzz of life around me.

That’s when I noticed a father and son sit down at the table in front of me. The boy looked around 11 or 12—that age when kids start pulling away, when parents often stop trying to connect. But this dad? He was trying.

At one point, I heard him say, “No, tell me—do you think I don’t care?”

That moment lodged itself in my chest—but not because it hurt. It didn’t make me ache. It made me happy. Like I was witnessing something rare—a dad who was really trying, a boy who had someone to lean on.

It reminded me that love really does show up in the smallest ways, if we’re paying attention.

That’s what I love—watching people in their own little worlds. I like watching life happen around me. It allows me to get out of my own head for a bit.

I love the feeling of being noticed in those in-between moments too. Like when someone meets your eye just long enough to say, I see you. That kind of thing stays with me.

Maybe that’s what I carry the most—those small flashes of connection.

I notice tenderness. I collect it. I fall in love with it. Those are the moments that keep my heart soft.