Your hand reaches for a doorknob and the room behind it seems to adjust before you arrive. The Sun sits in your first house, the house of the body and first contact, the face that meets the world before a single word does, and that placement puts your whole identity right on the surface where everyone can see it. The way you walk into a kitchen is already an argument. People read you fast, and some of them read you as too much before you have said anything, which is the strange tax of carrying your own weather on the skin instead of behind it. That part stings, and it also tells you the wattage is real. Here is what it asks of you over the years: let your presence be a door other people get to walk through, not a wall they bounce off. You get to take up the room you actually take up. Be visible without apologizing for it, and let the rest of the world do its own translating.