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I’ve gotten softer.
In every aspect of my life, I’ve finally gotten softer.
There was a time when I was all piss and vinegar, always ready for a fight. It didn’t matter if it was verbal or physical—I was prepared for warfare.
I could feel tension enter a room before anyone spoke. Jaw tight. Shoulders squared. Ready. If a fight showed up at my doorstep, I answered it. Truth be told, I probably started a few of those fights myself. (Not a source of pride, just an observation.)
I had righteous anger.
And I had every reason to be angry: sexual assault, losing my mother, becoming disabled in a world that worships productivity and punishes fragility. Rage felt like oxygen. Without it, I thought I might disappear.
I was on a one-woman war path. I wanted the system to burn. I wanted institutions exposed. I wanted people held accountable. I wanted closure like it was something that could be signed and notarized.
I never wanted revenge. I wanted justice.
I wanted to be seen.
To be heard.
To be believed.
I wanted people to be softer with me.
Instead, I became steel. For years, I mistook hardness for strength. Then something shifted. Not dramatically; it was quieter than that. I stopped leading with my fury.
And when I did, my guard didn’t shatter—it dissolved.
When someone said something dismissive, the kind of comment that used to send me into orbit, I felt the familiar heat rise in my chest. The words formed, sharp and precise, ready to cut. And then I paused. Not because I was weak. Not because I didn’t care. But because I realized I didn’t want to spend my peace on this.
That was new. My heart began filling with something that felt cellular—like my body had rewritten its own survival code.
Empathy replaced adrenaline.
Boundaries replaced explosions.
Perhaps this calm is another stage of trauma. Another adaptation. Maybe softness is simply a nervous system no longer bracing for impact. But to me, this “isolation” isn’t retreat. It’s boundaries. It’s believing that this life—my life—is actually worth protecting.
I learned that continuing this journey with an open heart would cost me. Softness isn’t passive. It requires discipline. It requires restraint. It requires letting your heart break open without turning it into a weapon.
But I’m committed.
Committed to remaining soft in a world that grows thorns by the hour. It’s the only form of rebellion I have left. Not loud. Not viral. Not screaming into the void. Just a quiet refusal to harden.
I move with the shadows now, but I no longer feed them my fear. I will stare apathy in the face and refuse to let it calcify me. I will not let cruelty define the architecture of my character.
I am softer now. And make no mistake—this softness is not surrender. It is earned. It is deliberate.
And if I have to fight the devil himself to protect the peace I’ve built, I will.
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