This Version of Me Is Still Soft.

There’s an ache in me that wants softness more than anything. Not just comfort, but real softness, the kind that lets me exhale, unclench, trust. I want to be held without bracing. I want to speak without rehearsing. I want to love without calculating the cost. But every time I inch toward that softness, fear grabs my wrist. It reminds me of the times I let my guard down and got hurt. It whispers, You can’t afford to be that open again.

So I live in this in-between. I crave tenderness, but I scan for danger. I offer warmth, but I flinch when it’s returned. My nervous system doesn’t know the difference between safety and silence yet. It still thinks love might turn sharp. It still remembers the hands that held me too tightly, the words that wrapped around my throat. And yet, despite all that, I remain soft. Not because I’m naïve, but because I’m choosing softness as a form of resistance. As a way to say, I survived, and I still believe in gentleness.

This version of me is not reckless. She’s cautious, yes, but she’s also brave. Brave enough to feel the fear and still reach for softness. Brave enough to name the paradox, I want to be open, and I’m terrified of what might come in. That fear doesn’t make me weak. It makes me honest. And honesty, I’ve learned, is one of the softest things we can offer.