First Time Here

I remind myself—

softly,

like a truth

too tender to shout.

Every soul

on this spinning earth

is living

their first life.

No rehearsals.

No dress runs.

No secret manual

tucked behind the ribs.

Eight billion of us—

walking around

with hope

in one hand

and survival

in the other.

Making decisions

with the information

we had

at the time.

There is no right way

to be human.

No universal rhythm

we all agreed

to clap on.

Just improvisation.

Just people

doing the best they can

with the tools

they were given,

and the wounds

they inherited.

And still—

with this knowing,

with this mercy,

fear hangs in the air

like humidity.

Anxiety sits in our chests,

uninvited.

Depression whispers

that we are failing

at something

that was never

clearly defined.

That’s the part

that breaks my heart.

Because if this

is all our first time—

why are we so cruel

to ourselves?

Why do we measure

our becoming

against illusions

and timelines

that ignore

how hard it is

just to stay here?

I’m a woman—

a Black woman—

trying to understand

the meaning of life

in a world

that demands answers

but offers

very little grace.

Maybe the meaning

isn’t mastery.

Maybe it’s allowance.

Maybe it’s learning

to breathe

without apology.

To live

without pretending

we know exactly

what we’re doing.

Because the truth is—

none of us do.

And somehow

we are still here.

Still trying.