Soft Armor: A Reflection on Quiet Strength

I never used to think of myself as a strong person, and with good reason. 

As a little girl, I was quiet and shy, the sort of kid who stayed glued to her parents whenever she went out with her family. I didn't want to be anything in particular when I grew up either. In fact, the idea of having a job one day filled me with terror and the closest thing to existential dread a little kid can feel. 

The world just seemed like such a scary place, a place I didn't think I'd ever be strong enough to survive in. But as it turned out, I also didn't understand strength yet. Because not all strength announces itself with a roar. In fact, some of the most powerful types don't make noise at all. 

They don’t show up with medals or applause. They aren’t polished, flashy, or performative. They’re the strengths that live underground and spend their energy producing roots instead of flowers. They're hidden until you look closely, quiet until you really take the time to stop and listen.

Mine is this kind. The kind that waits. 

It waits in the calm pacing of a rational thought when my chest is full of storms. It waits in the decision to keep going, not because the path is easy, but because I refuse to give up on the idea that there's a point and a purpose to my being here in the first place. 

My hidden strength isn't obvious fortitude or impenetrable toughness. It's resilience. 

Resilience is quiet, but it’s also defiant. It’s choosing not to become bitter, even after years of being underestimated, picked apart, or flat-out ignored. It’s telling others that they don’t get to tell me who I am, even when I’ve forgotten how to remind myself. 

It’s lighting a tea light on my altar when I feel powerless. Anointing my wrists with oil meant to invite success, even on days when failure feels more honest. 

It's waking up with my anxiety telling me the world is about to end, but getting out of bed anyway. It's going out into the garden to get some sun when I'd much rather hide inside in a dark room all day (or all year, even). It's reminding myself to drink plenty of water. Answering emails. Whispering hope under my breath when the world’s noise tells me not to bother.

It's choosing to write, create, love, learn, even when the evidence around me says it would be so much easier not to.

This is what most people never notice about resilient people. They don’t see what it costs to keep joy alive in places that feel designed to snuff it out — aging, crumbling, and full of ghosts. They don’t see the negotiations I make with my own sadness, not to banish it, but to ask it to move over so joy can sit beside it. They don’t see how many times I’ve had to build a sense of home out of nothing but music, memory, or a cup of triple Earl Grey tea in the right light.

Joy isn’t something that happens to me. It’s something I conjure, sometimes out of sticks and stones. I don’t lie to myself about how hard life can be. But I also don’t lie to myself about how beautiful it still is, regardless. I'm very familiar with both, because my center is in the space between them, and there it will continue to be. Forever and ever, amen.

* This reflection is part of the Feast of the Wandering Pen, a month-long exploration of writing, thought, and imagination in all its many forms.