I used to think strength was loud.
It was in the volume of my argument.
The refusal to break in front of anyone.
Strength meant armor.
It meant dominance.
It meant always being the last one standing,
even if I was bleeding inside.
But that version of strength
was born from fear.
Fear of being seen as weak.
Fear of being left behind.
Fear of being forgotten if I didn’t perform my power.
—
Now, I understand:
True strength doesn’t need to be loud.
It needs to be true.
It doesn’t roar.
It resonates.
—
It’s in how I pause before reacting.
It’s in how I walk away from what doesn’t align.
It’s in how I say “no” without flinching.
It’s in how I say “yes” without performing.
It’s in how I let go—gently, without spectacle.
It’s in how I forgive, without forgetting who I am.
—
My strength is no longer about being unshakable.
It’s about being anchored.
Not above the storm—
but rooted in it.
Not louder than others—
but steady in myself.
—
I don’t need to shout my boundaries.
I don’t need to explain my peace.
I don’t need to win the room to own my power.
The ones who feel it, will feel it.
Not because I imposed it—
but because I embody it.
—
To You, If You’re Learning a Softer Kind of Power
You don’t have to roar.
You don’t have to be on guard all the time.
You don’t have to prove your worth with performance.
Strength doesn’t always fight.
Sometimes it simply stands.
And sometimes, it walks away—calm, clear, unshaken.
Let your power be quiet now.
Let it live in your breath, your gaze, your presence.
It will reach who it’s meant to.
And that will be enough.
