It took me a lot to be this gentle

Gentleness wasn’t something that came naturally to me. It wasn’t something I saw growing up. It was something I had to learn on my own, something I had to fight for.

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When you grow up in a house where voices are always raised and love comes with conditions, where apologies never come and mistakes are blamed on you, it’s hard to understand what gentleness even means. I didn’t grow up with soft words or warm hugs. No one told me it was okay to make mistakes, or that I was still loved even when I failed. What I learned was to keep quiet, to survive, to toughen up.

I protected myself by building walls, not by opening up. I kept my emotions inside because showing them only led to being hurt or ignored. I became harsh with myself because that’s how others treated me. I thought strength meant being cold. I thought love had to hurt. I thought being kind to myself was weakness.

But somewhere inside, a quiet voice kept whispering “maybe there’s another way.”

It took years of breaking down and rebuilding myself. It took crying in silence and slowly learning how to listen to what my heart really needed. It meant letting go of old beliefs, painful habits, and the voices in my head telling me I wasn’t good enough.

I had to teach myself how to speak gently not just to others, but to myself.

I had to unlearn the idea that I deserved pain. I had to remind myself, again and again, that softness isn’t weakness. That it’s okay to be tender with a heart that’s been hurt too many times.

Gentleness became a daily choice—on angry days, broken days, on the days when the world told me to toughen up and stop caring.

I’ve learned that gentleness isn’t about pretending things don’t hurt. It’s about holding pain with care. It’s about choosing peace when your past only taught you chaos. It’s showing up with kindness, even when life hasn’t been kind to you.

Now I am gentle but it took everything — every scar, every sleepless night, every painful memory, every lonely moment. I lost myself. Then I found myself again.

So when others call me calm, kind, or soft, they don’t see the storms I survived. They don’t hear the silent nights or feel the weight I carried.

And that’s okay. I didn’t become gentle for others to understand me. I did it so I could breathe. So I could find peace. So I could love others the way I wish someone had loved me. Most of all, so I could finally love myself.

It took me a lot to be this gentle.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.