Softness doesn’t mean weakness. It means strength that’s no longer afraid to rest.
I lived a long time confusing the two—thinking that if I slowed down, I’d fall apart. That if I asked for help, I’d be seen as less. That softness was a luxury for people who had support, safety, privilege… not for those of us who’d had to hold it all together for years.
But strength that never rests becomes brittle. It hardens into something sharp. And while that sharpness can get things done, it also cuts—through relationships, through joy, through the quiet parts of yourself that are still learning how to trust.
There comes a point when your body starts asking for softness. Not in a gentle whisper, but in a loud, aching plea. The exhaustion becomes undeniable. The pushing stops working. And what used to feel like drive now feels like depletion.
I used to wear my independence like armour. Now, I let it sit beside me—not as something I need all the time, but something I can choose when needed. Because true strength isn’t constant motion. It’s knowing when to stop. It’s knowing when to breathe.
Softness is allowing your body to unclench. It’s letting yourself cry without shame. It’s being held—not just by others, but by your own compassion. It’s the moment you stop needing to explain why you’re tired and start trusting your need to rest.
That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.
And that’s where healing begins.