After the pain, after the leaving, after the silence! there comes a choice.
You can harden.
You can build walls taller than your hurt.
You can promise yourself never again, never let someone in, never love with open hands, never cry over someone who didn't cry for you.
And no one would blame you.
Because pain makes armor look like wisdom.
But then there's the other option.
The harder one.
The one no one claps for.
You can choose to stay soft.
It doesn't happen all at once.
Softness isn't something you declare; it's something you fight to keep.
In a world that constantly teaches you to close, it's rebellion to remain open.
I remember waking up one morning after weeks of crying myself to sleep.
My pillow still smelled like her.
My heart still felt like it was missing pages.
But I stood in the mirror, and for the first time, I didn't try to look unbothered.
I didn't try to fake strength.
I just stood there—tired, swollen-eyed, and soft.
And that softness, that quiet honesty with myself, felt braver than any wall I could've built.
Being soft doesn't mean being naive.
It doesn't mean letting people walk over you or staying in what harms you.
It means refusing to let pain change your essence.
It means loving again even when you know what love can take from you.
It means offering kindness even when your trust has been broken.
It means forgiving—sometimes not because they deserve it, but because you deserve peace.
I started writing letters I never sent.
To people who hurt me.
To the version of me that let them.
To the version of me that survived.
I poured every emotion out—grief, anger, tenderness, confusion.
And through those letters, I found a version of myself I hadn't met before:
The version that could feel everything and still not collapse.
Some days, I hated how soft I was.
I wanted to be cold, unreadable, untouchable.
But when I tried that mask on, it never fit.
Because the truth is:
I feel deeply.
I love hard.
And yes, I get hurt.
But that's not weakness.
That's my superpower.
The world tells us to toughen up.
To "move on."
To "get over it."
But I think the bravest thing you can do is move through it.
Feel every ounce of it.
Let it change you, but not harden you.
So here's what I've learned:
You can be soft and still have boundaries.
You can be loving and still say no.
You can be kind without tolerating abuse.
You can forgive and still walk away.
Softness is not surrender.
It's strength dressed in vulnerability.
If you've been hurt and you're still tender—
If you still believe in love despite what it's cost yo
If you've cried but kept your heart open…
You're doing it right.
You're not weak.
You're just still human.
And that's more than enough.