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.
—L.B.
You Might Also Love…
More of Steeped in Stillness…
We chased lightnin’ bugs barefoot with jars in our hands. Not to keep them, just to hold the magic long enough to remember. That hour between dusk and dark still feels magical.