On Becoming Soft Again
From the private papers of Lady Bergamot
April, a mild and mist-soaked evening
The house is quiet now. The child sleeps, the fire has dwindled to a slow breath, and I have made myself a cup of something floral and comforting. I do not expect to write anything of consequence tonight, only to unburden a little.
I have been thinking, lately, about the notion of softness. How I once believed it was something to be overcome — some early weakness to be outgrown. I wanted to be clever, composed, untouchable. To carry my pain like lace beneath wool — hidden, beautiful, and entirely mine.
But the older I become, the more I long for gentleness. Not just from others, but from myself.
There is something holy in the quiet moments: in letting tears fall without needing to explain them, in tending herbs with bare hands, in sitting still long enough to feel my own breath settle. I am not always so brave, but I am trying.
I no longer wish to be a fortress. I wish to be a garden.
There is strength in softness, I think — a strength that bends and grows and carries on quietly. A strength that needs no announcement.
The girl I once was would hardly recognize me now — slow, tender, far too prone to sentiment. She would think me undone. But I am not undone. I am simply no longer armored.
And that, I believe, is worth something.
The hour grows late. The rain has begun again.
