Softness is Strength: Lessons My Younger Self Didn’t Believe
At 26, I lived in constant motion. I was hustling to catch up, juggling multiple jobs, and still feeling behind because I had started school “late.” I had just finished my bachelor’s degree, I wasn’t sure what was next, and I was in a relationship that drained me more than it sustained me. I told myself strength meant pushing through. Surviving. Never letting anyone see me stop, or struggle, or rest.
I thought if I could just keep pace with my peers, I’d finally feel happy. But the truth was, I didn’t even know what happiness looked like.
Learning to Slow Down
One of the first gifts therapy gave me was the reminder that I wasn’t in a race. My therapist helped me unlearn the belief that life was about “catching up.” She told me this journey is mine alone, and that I could either fight against the ebbs or learn to flow with them. That simple truth changed everything.
Instead of measuring myself against someone else’s path, I started asking: What does joy look like for me? What do I actually want to carry?
Strength in Illness
When I became chronically ill, I thought my body had betrayed me. I looked at my limits as weakness. But slowly, I began to see that strength wasn’t about being superhuman, it was about embracing my humanness.
My illness taught me the value of rest. It forced me to accept help, to stop performing invincibility, and to realize that capacity has nothing to do with worth. That was a kind of softness my 26-year-old self would never have believed in, but it has made me more powerful than pushing ever did.
Community as Safe Harbor
Softness also showed up in community. Over the last decade, I have curated friendships rooted in mutual care. Because I have learned to value my own humanness, I can honor and value the humanness of others.
These friendships remind me that I can show up fully as myself, even if I don’t show up perfectly. I can say, “This is all I have today,” and still be loved. That kind of safety makes softness possible.
The Difference Between Armor and Healing
At 26, I thought my armor was what made me strong. The hard shell kept me moving, but it also kept me disconnected from myself. Softness, I’ve learned, is different. It doesn’t mean being fragile. It means being honest about what hurts, asking for help, and allowing joy to coexist with grief.
Hardness protected me, but softness heals me.
What I Know Now
If I could go back, I’d tell my younger self: the discomfort you feel when you slow down, when you show emotion, when you let someone in, is not danger. It’s growth.
And to every Black, queer woman reading this who has been told she has to be strong, unbreakable, and unshaken: your softness is not a liability, it is your birthright.
Healing has made me more confident in my identity and less afraid of being seen. And I promise, the more you let yourself lean into softness, the more freedom you will find.
Closing
For years I thought strength was about survival: hustling, pushing, staying armored. But what I’ve learned is that true strength is found in the moments I let myself rest, receive, and be held. It’s in valuing my own humanness and giving others permission to value theirs. Softness has not made me weaker, it has made me more whole. And this wholeness has given me a confidence my younger self could never have imagined.
Invitation
Where has softness shown up in your life recently? How might you allow it to guide you, even if it feels unfamiliar?
