🪷 Soft Doesn’t Mean Weak

 I spent a lot of my life trying to look less soft than I am. I used to say shit like “I’ve curb-stomped bitches for less,” with such conviction that even my mom started to wonder if it was true. It felt safer to be scary. Easier to be someone people didn’t mess with than someone they didn’t take seriously.

Because the truth was, I was the girl who cried in public. The one who got her heart broken constantly—by friends, by partners, by teachers, by family. I was the one who took everything too personally and never really learned how to stop.

Eventually, I got cold. Cold was easier. Cold didn’t get laughed at or manipulated or left behind.

But I’m not cold anymore. I’m not trying to be.

I don’t care about being “unbothered” or mysterious or whatever vibe people are chasing to feel powerful these days. I don’t want to win at being indifferent. I want to care, openly and honestly and without shame.

And yeah, softness is risky. But it’s also real. It’s connection. It’s choosing to feel something instead of living in survival mode forever. And it’s one of the only things that’s ever actually made me feel strong.

🧠 The Armor I Used to Wear

In therapy, we talk about emotional toolboxes. The stuff you pick up to protect yourself when the world shows you—again and again—that no one else is going to.

My go-to emotional tools? Invisibility. A hammer. And a box of  matches.

I was quiet when I needed to be. I could make myself disappear in a room if I didn’t feel safe. But I could also hit back—hard—when pushed. And if it got too messy, too painful, too real? I’d set it all on fire and walk away. Start over somewhere new like it was nothing. For years, everything I owned fit in the back of my hatchback. That wasn’t just convenient. That was survival.

If people hurt me? Cool. They could keep the friends. I’d disappear and rebuild. No closure, no confrontation, no talking it out. Just vanish.

I was angry. Still am, in some ways—but not like before. Back then, sarcasm was a weapon. I learned how to be sharp and cutting and cold, because it felt like the only language anyone actually paid attention to. Softness? Vulnerability? That was an invitation to get hurt, ignored, and mocked.

And when the world feels full of people who are fake, manipulative, or only ever looking out for themselves—it’s hard to believe softness is even an option. So I didn’t try. I just armored up. And I stayed that way for a long time.

🌿 What Softness Looks Like Now

Lately, I’ve been trying to move away from being that version of myself—the one with the hammer and the matches. The one who burned bridges before anyone else got the chance. I’ve been looking at where I learned those coping mechanisms, and which part of me learned them. What those parts were trying to protect.

I’m still healing those parts. Still figuring out how to cope differently. How to be soft without putting myself in danger.

These days, my emotional toolbox looks different.
Now it’s a shield, a flashlight, and a mirror.

The shield is for boundaries. The kind that are steady but flexible when they need to be. It’s saying “no” in a calm voice, and meaning it. It’s stepping back when something doesn’t feel right—without the need for a dramatic exit or a big speech.

The flashlight is for clarity. For spotting patterns before they spiral. For seeing people as they are, not just how I want them to be. For recognizing when I’m falling into old survival modes and gently pulling myself back.

And the mirror? That’s the hardest one. That’s where I look at myself. Where I sit with the uncomfortable parts and ask, “Why does this hurt the way it does?” It’s how I hold myself accountable without shame. How I keep growing.

Softness now is being honest about how things make me feel, even when it’s awkward. Even when it would be easier to lash out and call it boundaries.

It’s holding space for other people’s pain without turning it into a trauma contest. It’s understanding that not everyone will get it—and gently stepping back from the ones who think their pain gives them a free pass to hurt others.

And I’ve learned that stepping away from one person doesn’t have to mean burning down everything and starting over. I don’t have to disappear to feel safe. I don’t need people to hear my side to feel valid.

My pain is real. So is my healing.
And now, instead of sharp and biting, I’m learning to be soft and honest.
Still protective. Still fierce. Just not cruel. Not careless. Not hiding anymore.

This softness feels solid. And it’s mine.

🛡️ Softness as Resistance

In a world that claims to reward individualism, cruelty, and detachment, softness doesn’t always make sense. It doesn’t get the spotlight. It doesn’t come with applause. Sometimes it gets mistaken for weakness. Sometimes it’s dismissed entirely.

But I’m choosing it anyway. And that choice is resistance. Every time I stay soft when it would be easier to shut down or lash out, I’m making a decision to be different than the world taught me to be.

Softness isn’t about letting people walk all over me. It’s not about being agreeable or fragile or small.
It’s about being rooted.

Because caring takes strength.
Holding boundaries takes strength.
Supporting people without losing yourself in the process—that takes a kind of quiet courage most people aren’t taught to value.

This version of softness I’m learning doesn’t flinch from the truth. It doesn’t avoid conflict, but it also doesn’t seek it. It lets people be human, even when that’s hard.

And no, not everyone deserves access to that softness.
But that’s where the shield comes in. The flashlight. The mirror.

Softness is knowing when to protect your peace without turning cold.
It’s being honest without being harsh.
It’s staying open without being unguarded.

Vulnerability builds community. It says, I’m not perfect either, but I’m here. And that kind of connection? That kind of humanity? That’s radical.

I don’t want to win at being untouchable. I want to be real.
Softness isn’t weakness.
It’s a choice. A boundary. A practice.

And it’s one I keep coming back to—because it’s who I actually am, underneath all the armor.

🌙 Returning to Myself

I used to think strength was sharp edges and quick exits. Sarcasm, silence, burning everything down before anyone else got the chance to hurt me. I thought if I stayed untouchable, I’d stay safe.

But that kind of strength always came at a cost—usually me. My softness. My ability to trust. My chance to feel seen without performing or pretending.

Now I know what actual strength looks like. .
It’s quieter. Gentler.
It shows up in small moments: a deep breath before I speak. Choosing clarity over control. Saying no without guilt. Letting people misunderstand me without needing to defend myself.

Softness doesn’t mean I’ve stopped protecting myself. It means I’ve started protecting the parts of me I used to abandon to keep the peace. The parts that want connection. The parts that want to care without flinching.

This isn’t about being nice. Or agreeable. Or liked.
This is about being real. Being rooted. Being whole.

Softness now feels like presence.
Like choosing to stay, not because it’s easy, but because I finally believe I’m worth staying with.

So no, I’m not trying to be unbothered anymore. I’m trying to live in a way that feels honest, even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.

And maybe you’re doing that too.

So I’ll ask you gently—
Where in your life could you practice softness more intentionally?
Where could you be more present, more honest, more you?

This week’s mantra:
✨ I can be soft and still be unshakable. ✨