Dear Women: Your Softness Won’t Kill You. But Your Guard Might.

You weren’t born hard. The world made you that way. But you don’t have to stay there.

Photo by Calvin Visuals on Unsplash

Whenever I talk or write about softness, especially to women, especially to Black women, I watch the room shift.

Some fold their arms. Some look down. Some throw side eyes. Some go, “Umph.”

Immediately, the reasons start pouring out.

“Girl, I’m tired.” “I don’t have time to fall apart.” “Men are dangerous.” “This world is racist and violent, and I gotta survive.” “I can’t afford to break down or be vulnerable.”

And let me say this clearly: I hear you. I see you.

This world is violent. Some men are dangerous. This country is racist AF. The pressure to hold it all together is unrelenting.

The word soft often hits like an insult, not an invitation to exhale, to unclench your jaw, to loosen your hands, to be held, and to be fully human and loved.

The word lands like a slap because somewhere along the way so many of us learned that softness was dangerous. That softness was how you get left. Or laughed at. Or looked over. That softness was what got your mother hurt. What got you disappointed. What left you exposed in a world that doesn’t offer bandages for us.

So, we flinch. Not because it’s wrong. But because being soft is unfamiliar. Because our bodies still brace before our mouths ever speak.

You were not wrong for learning how to survive. Because the brain’s job is to keep the body safe. And when grow up in unsafe and toxic environments, the brain adapts as best it can to maximize your survival.

This world has not been gentle with you. It has asked too much, too early, for too long. It has demanded your strength, harvested your labor, drained your body, and then gaslit you when you needed rest.

That response, the one that says I can’t do softness right now, is sacred. It’s raw. Cracked open. Tender. Exhausted. It’s not resistance to softness. It’s proof that you’re craving it.

You’re not saying no. You’re naming the debris field you’re stuck in: trauma, betrayal, chronic stress, financial instability, spiritual fatigue, skin hunger, and the pressure to keep showing up for others while no one is showing up for you.

You’re not rejecting softness. You’re just trying to survive without it.

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But I need you to hear this too: Being hard is not the same as being safe. Being guarded is not the same as being free. Being emotionally unavailable is not protection.

Softness doesn’t make you a target. It makes you human.

And denying yourself softness because the world is cruel is like refusing to drink water because the air is dirty. You don’t have to pour your tenderness into unsafe people. But you do have to stop robbing it from yourself.

So, let’s name what this really looks like. I want you to picture an unsoft woman. Hear her. See her. Feel her.

She talks like her throat has barbed wire in it.

Every sentence is a defense mechanism, coated in salt and delivered with a performative laugh. You know that laugh. Sharp, quick, meant to let you know she said it before you could. Meant to let you know she “stays ready” and “she said what she said.” That she saw your little jab coming from ten emotional miles away and already turned it into a punchline.

She calls herself “real” and not to be played with.

She says it like a warning. Like tenderness is a scam and warmth is a setup. She’ll tell you she doesn’t do emotions. That she “ain’t the one.” That she’s tired of being the strong friend, but still flinches at gentleness.

She wears her disappointment in others like armor. And when someone finally sees her, I mean really sees her, she gets angrier, not softer. Because now she’s exposed.

You can hear it in her voice. The rasp of exhaustion. The clipped tone. The words chosen like weapons. The whole performance is so polished you’d think she was born that way. But she wasn’t.

She was made.

She learned very early that softness was dangerous. Are you this woman?

Here’s the thing: the stories women tell to defend their hardness—“I don’t have time,” “the world is too dangerous,” “I’ll fall apart if I slow down”—are often post-rationalizations for something much deeper and somatic. The nervous system already decided. The body already braced. And the mind came in afterward to explain it.

So yes, the defensiveness toward softness often starts in the body, not the intellect. What feels like a “decision” is actually a neurological reflex. It's not, “I don't want to be soft.” It's, “My body doesn't know how to feel safe enough to be soft.”

Because when your early environment teaches you that closeness is inconsistent, that your needs are too much, or that tenderness makes you a target, your nervous system encodes that lesson into your very wiring.

Let’s talk about what it does to the brain. The amygdala, your brain’s fear center, gets hypersensitive. Always scanning for danger. Always on edge. The prefrontal cortex, the part of your brain that helps with emotional regulation and reflection, goes offline under stress. Your vagus nerve, which regulates calm and connection, starts firing in unpredictable patterns that make you feel anxious even when things are quiet.

So, what do you do?

You live clenched. You anticipate betrayal. You call it “being prepared.” You call it “being strong.” You call it “not letting people get too close.”

But really, you’re in survival mode. You’re not choosing to be hard. Your body is simply reacting the way it learned to. And remember, the brain’s job is to keep the body safe.

This is what neuroscience calls adaptive survival strategy. But in the world? We just call it “personality.” We give it names like “hyper-independent,” “emotionally unavailable,” “tough as nails.” We slap labels on trauma and call it identity.

But none of this was your design. This was your body doing what it had to do when it was never given another option.

But we also have to tell the harder truth: Hard women can be harmful, too.

Yes, you were made this way by toxic stress, adverse childhood experiences and violence. Yes, your armor had purpose. That’s why you’re still alive. But the pain you swallowed can still become the pain you pass on.

Because unsoftness isn’t neutral. It doesn’t just protect, it can cut. It can shut down tenderness in your children. It can belittle vulnerability in your friends. It can silence truth in your partner. It can make people feel like loving you is a battle they can’t win.

Your sharpness and rough tone might be the reason someone else doesn’t feel safe to soften. Your sarcasm might be someone else’s wound. Your survival mode might be building a home where no one can rest, not even you.

And that’s the tragedy of it. When we harden to survive, we often recreate the very conditions we needed to escape.

So this isn’t about shame. It’s about responsibility. It’s about asking: What happens to the people around me when I refuse to feel? When I only know how to love through control, correction, or caution? And most importantly: What happens to me when I stay this hard for too long?

Because yes, you were taught to be unsoft to protect yourself. But if that protection starts turning into harm, to others, to yourself, then the question isn’t “how did I get this way?” The question becomes: Do I want to stay this way?

So, how do we practice being soft in a radical way? Because for real, the world hasn’t gotten any kinder. The bills still need paying. The kids still need raising. The work still demands everything. And the people who hurt you may never apologize.

But this ain’t about waiting for the world to be safe before you start softening. This is about learning how to be gentle with yourself inside the storm. It’s about reclaiming your nervous system. Interrupting the survival script. Choosing softness not because life is easy, but because you deserve to feel whole.

So, here’s where we begin, with practice. A few small ways to soften, without putting yourself in danger. This list isn’t about being soft for other folks. It’s about being soft for you. Your nervous system. Your spirit. Your life force. Not a performance, just a return.

And as I minister to you, I minister to myself.

Let Yourself Need Something, Privately First. You don’t have to start with another person. Start by telling yourself the truth about what you need. Write it down. Whisper it. Sit with it. The softness starts in the self before it ever touches someone else.

Practice Saying “I Don’t Know” Without Shame. Softness means releasing the illusion that you always have to have the answer. Try saying it once this week, just to yourself or in conversation, and don’t rush to fix it. Feel the freedom in uncertainty.

Choose Rest Without Earning It. Not when the list is done. Not when everybody else is taken care of. Now. Lay down. Stretch. Put your hand on your chest and say: “I deserve rest because I’m alive.” Not because I’m useful. That’s softness. Hell, sometimes I’ll just say, “fuqque it” or “I quit,” and the day is over.

Find One Safe Person You Don’t Have to Perform For. A therapist. A friend. A cousin. A journal, even. Start small. Can you go five minutes without code-switching, caretaking, or editing yourself to make someone else comfortable? That’s your softness laboratory.

Talk to Your Inner Child Like You Actually Love Her. Not tough love. Not lectures. Just love. Look at a photo of your younger self and say: “You didn’t deserve that.” “I’m sorry no one protected you.” “You’re safe now.” Your softness started dying when hers did.

Let Your Voice Be Gentle On Purpose. Not for them. For you. Experiment with a quieter tone when you talk to yourself. Instead of barking commands in your head, try: “Let’s do this slowly, baby.” That voice rewires your nervous system.

Create Micro-Moments of Sensory Pleasure. Light the candle. Rub the oil. Put on the soft shirt. Wrap in the fuzzy blanket even if it’s hot. Eat some jerk chicken or marshmallows before you take a nap. Your brain needs physical proof that safety exists. That you can feel good without danger following right behind.

Set Boundaries Without Rage. You don’t have to explode to be clear. Practice saying, “That doesn’t work for me,” in a neutral tone. That’s next-level softness—holding your ground and your peace. No spike in cortisol. No burn after.

Let People Be Wrong About You. You don’t have to argue every lie. Every projection. Every mischaracterization. What people think of you isn’t your business. Softness trusts that your truth doesn’t need constant defense. Silence can be a sanctuary. Let your softness disengage.

Celebrate Tenderness in Other Women, Out Loud. When you see softness, don’t judge it. Don’t envy it. Name it. Affirm it. “I love how open she is.” “That joy is contagious.” Practice desiring the energy you were told was weak. That desire is a map back to you.

My sisters, softness is not the opposite of strength. It’s the part of you that remembers what strength was for. It’s not weakness. It’s not naivety. It’s not an invitation to be used. It’s the quiet decision to stop bleeding on people just to prove you’re alive.

You were never meant to live your whole life clenched. Guard up. Heart tight. Body buzzing like a wire about to snap. You were never meant to be the one who always knows, always carries, always fixes, always absorbs.

There is a version of you underneath all that steel. It’s tender, curious, honest, radiant. She’s still in there. Not broken. Not gone. Just buried under decades of survival.

And maybe you can’t go back and protect the little girl who needed softness and didn’t get it.
But you can become the woman who gives it back to her now. Not all at once. Not in front of everybody. But piece by piece.

You start with breath. You start with quiet. You start with you. And when you’re ready, you let softness stay. Not because the world is gentle, but because you choose to be.

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