I wake up already calculating.

Not in a dramatic way. More like checking the weather before leaving the house. Tone. Posture. Volume. What will move the day along smoothly, and what might complicate it unnecessarily.

By the time I leave the house, I am already edited.
The first moments of the day are ordinary. Instructions are offered loosely, then enforced carefully. A task arrives framed as shared, but settles in my hands alone. When I ask a simple clarifying question, there’s a pause—brief, almost polite.

Nothing is said. Something is noted.
When something goes wrong—and something usually does—the expectation is gentle but clear: I will absorb it.

Not just the mistake, but the uncertainty around it. The crossed wires. The shifting details. I am expected to translate all of it into progress without letting the translation show strain.

So I stay steady.

I document.
I restate.
I choose words that are calm enough to travel without friction.

When I explain, I keep the explanation clean. Not because emotion is wrong, but because emotion changes how the explanation is received. And today is not the day to invite misunderstanding.

There is a narrow space where I am allowed to exist comfortably: capable but not imposing, engaged but not forceful, present without being too present. The boundaries move quietly. I adjust just as quietly.

Others are allowed to be openly frustrated. Their missteps are met with understanding. Their bad days remain just that—days. I notice this without resentment. Observation, too, can be a form of care.

So I endure—not with hardness, but with attention.

I endure conversations that circle before landing.
I endure pauses where I sense expectation but not instruction.
I endure praise for patience in moments where patience is simply the kindest option available.

What is often called professionalism feels, in practice, like choosing the smoothest path so everyone can get home intact.

Staying calm while being provoked is not composure —it is consideration.
Explaining without emotion is not detachment—it is discernment.
Enduring without being seen as unstable is not denial—it is navigation.

By the end of the day, the tiredness is quiet. It sits behind the eyes, not in the muscles. It’s the cost of paying attention all day—to tone, timing, and the invisible edges of the room.

Still, I remain whole.

Not because the system suddenly softened.
But because I learned how to move through it without carrying more than I need to.

That is not weakness.
That is not erasure.

That is living carefully inside an imperfect structure, and choosing steadiness where possible.

So I leave you with a gentle question—

After spending a day in this skin:
Who do you think is the binary person, and what do you think is the ethnicity?

Who did you picture while reading this – and what did you rely on to decide?

In a season of gathering and pause, this piece invites attention to what we notice – and what we assume – when we sit with another person’s day.

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Happy Holidays from me to yours. I hope this season brings you joy and warmth, surrounded by loved ones and filled with laughter. May your days be enjoyable, your heart light, and your celebrations memorable, as you cherish the moments that truly matter and look forward to a bright new year ahead.

One love, Patrick