Tequila and Tea

For a long time, I wore strength like armor.
I led with it.
Lived by it.
Loved through it.
Because somewhere along the way, I learned that being soft meant being vulnerable.
And being vulnerable meant being taken advantage of.
Again.

So I sharpened.
I became capable, quick-witted, guarded, generous in the ways that looked good on paper.
I knew how to make people feel seen,
while keeping my own heart hidden under lock and key.

Softness?
Softness was a luxury I thought I couldn’t afford.
It was the tear I refused to let fall.
The hand I didn’t reach for.
The “I miss you” I swallowed.
The tenderness I reserved only for the broken, but never for myself.

I thought you made me weak.
Turns out—
you were always my strength.

Because it’s you, Softness,
who shows up when everything falls apart.
It’s you who stays gentle in a world that constantly tells me to harden.
It’s you who whispers,
“Try again. Love again. Hope again.”
When logic says, “Don’t you dare.”

Softness, you are the way I love.
You are the pause before the reaction,
the hand that reaches out instead of pulling away,
the breath that brings me back to center
when my nervous system is screaming run.

You are not weakness.
You are resilience in its most holy form.
You are the freedom to feel,
to forgive,
to trust the rhythm of my own becoming.

So no, I won’t apologize for you anymore.
I won’t call you a liability.

Because the truth is—
I don’t want a life where I’m too afraid to be soft.

Let the world call me sensitive.
Let them misunderstand.
Let them say I’m too emotional, too tender, too much.

Because one day, someone will recognize you, Softness,
and say, “Thank God you didn’t lose this part of yourself.”

And until then,
I’ll keep writing you love letters
like this one.