There was a time I thought softness made me fragile and that being tender meant I’d be overlooked, talked over, taken advantage of. I thought softness was something you had to outgrow. Or hide. Or iron out with discipline. Or even sharpen with an edge of grit and hardcore “gangista-ness”.
But over the years, as I have mellowed and settled into myself, I’ve come to see it differently.
Softness has evolved to not be about being passive but about being quietly present. Often asking myself to sit with a bit of the discomfort of wanting to move faster. And then about feeling things fully while still choosing to stay open. When I remain soft, I don’t necessarily become blind to my propensity to lean heavily towards hope, or that there are risks in the loving, listening, hoping — and showing up anyway.
Perhaps the greatest gift that softness has given me is how to hold space and how to pause before reacting. I have become more comfortable with sitting with my own and others’ silence without trying to fix anything. I have even become quite good at writing without rushing to the conclusion and allowing my characters to speak… for the volume of the story to swell into something I could never have anticipated in my planning.
By leaning into softness, I find an opening into a fluency of language that is new and refreshing… and over time, I have found so much that is rich.
I have to admit though, that sometimes the Universe sends me little tests here and there. They’ve been times when people have assumed that my softness means that I won’t say no or that I will always give more or worse, that I will shrink to keep the peace. Let’s just say with softness in hand, I have learned to declare sacred space around it and well, for the sake of softness, I have found boundaries. I don’t abandon myself. I am soft but no less firm.
So. These days, I really protect my peace and instead of saying to myself, “toughen up,” I say, “Pause. Wait. Listen.”
I’m learning to trust that my tenderness is a skill and a tool of moving around the world in a way that serves all of me. I have come to appreciate that I feel so richly and so deeply. I love that I cry at well-written commercials. That I can’t read certain books without hugging them at the end. That I say “I love you” a little too easily sometimes. And for that I have been rewarded with many beautiful relationships, meaningful conversations, and an understanding of our human nature that makes me a better writer.
Softness is not a weakness. It’s one of my sharpest tools.