I Am Not Strong.

They see my survival and assume I was built for burden. But I wasn’t born to be strong—I was born to be soft.

I’ve spent the last 12 hours in my head trying to make sense of how I see myself, how the world views me, and how I want to exist in it.

I’ll start here:

I am a woman.

More specifically, I am a Black woman.

I am soft. I am emotional. I am dainty and deeply feminine. But I am also intelligent, and resilient. I posses strength, but I am not strong by nature— but by necessity. I grew up too soon. I navigated life with no mentors, only examples of who I didn’t want to become. I had no choice but to survive, to thrive, to figure it out. And while I’m proud of the strength I’ve developed, I don’t wear it like a badge. It was never the goal.

Strength was born out of survival, not identity.

People see what I’ve been through, the situations I came out on top of, and assume I can take more. More weight. More obstacles. They think that I’m built to carry, like a mule. That I don’t need gentleness. But I do.

I don’t want to be “strong.” I want to be soft. Treated softly.

I want to be handled with care. Spoken to with tenderness. Protected—not because I’m fragile, but because I’m worthy of softness and care.

I remember the first time I was called “dainty.”

I was in 10th grade on a JROTC field trip to an army base. Everyone wore gym clothes, ready for the obstacle courses and games. I wore a green and blue high-low dress I’d been waiting for the weather to match. I wasn’t there for the courts or the go-karts. I wanted a picnic. A book. A breeze. I wanted to feel beautiful in the sun.

The bus driver (black woman) noticed and said, “You’re very dainty.”

I didn’t know the word, so I looked it up later: delicately small and pretty.

Some girls might’ve scoffed at the label. But I didn’t.

It was the first time someone had seen me the way I saw myself.

I was proud.

Still, I’m not sure the world sees me that way. Even in my most vulnerable moments, my softest moments, I’m met with misinterpretation. I once gently kissed a lover on the forehead before leaving for work, as I had done every morning. He jolted awake. I was amused and assumed he was having a bad dream. I whispered to him “it’s just me,” resting a reassuring hand on him, before making my way out of the door.

I didn’t think much of it until he later described the moment as if I’d aggressively shaken him and that is what startled him.

That memory haunts me—not because of what happened, but because of what it revealed: somewhere in his subconscious, he saw me as aggressive.

That wasn’t an isolated incident. I’ve calmly expressed hurt in the past—no shouting, no sharp tone, no blame, no hand-neck-eye roll—only to be told I was being threatening. Aggressive. And it cuts deep. Because I’ve worked hard to be intentional in how I communicate. Strategically avoiding traits of the “angry black woman” during my most passion filled moments because I want my emotions to be heard. I wanted to be cared for. I’ve studied myself. Rehearsed softness. And still, my emotions are mistaken for danger. My tears read as manipulation. My voice as aggression. I know in my spirit that isn’t who I am. The people closest to me describe me as timid, gentle, supportive. And yet... some will always see me through a lens of fear, no matter how softly I show up.

That’s the part that breaks me. Haunts me.

Because I want to be seen for who I truly am. A woman who gets excited over a new dress. A woman who gets excited over trying new baking and coffee recipes found on Pintrest. A woman who loves being a woman. Who speaks softly, listens deeply, and feels everything. I don’t want to be feared. I don’t want to be handled like a threat. I don’t want to be praised for strength I never asked to carry. I don’t want my strength to be seen as a threat.

Yes, I possess strength. But I feel as if I am fighting to be seen as soft.

My strength built resilience—just as pressure makes diamonds—but no one treats a diamond carelessly just because it can withstand pressure. It's still precious. It still deserves to be handled with care.

I deserve to be handled with care.

I want my partners to see my pain and tend to it, not dismiss it. To protect me, not assume I can handle it all alone because I have in the past. I want the world to experience my joy without mocking it, hear my intellect without suspicion, and acknowledge my emotions without filtering them through their biases or fears.

When I ask for a manager, I don’t want security.

When I express myself, I don’t want to be met with defense.

When I am soft, I want to stay soft and receive softness in return.

I don’t want to defend my right to be hurt. Feel pain. Want more.

So hear me clearly:

I don’t want to be seen as strong. I want to be recognized for who I am. Delicate. Feminine. Tender. Dainty. I want the freedom to be vulnerable, to be loved gently, to be allowed—without resistance or explaination—to be soft.

I possess strength, but I am not strong.

I am soft.