Latest / Still Standing: Stories of Resilience, Survival & Strength / The Quiet Strength of Being Gentle to Those Who Hurt You | Still Standing
Transcript
- There is a version of you that wants to scream, to match their volume, to finally make them feel the weight they’ve been dropping on your shoulders. But today, I want to talk about the terrifying, radical power of choosing softness instead. Take a breath with me. Let’s just sit in that tension for a second. You know the feeling. Someone comes at you with sharp edges. Maybe it’s a comment that lands like a stone in your chest. Maybe it’s a pattern of neglect that has worn down your patience until there’s nothing left but frayed wire. In that moment, your body goes into survival mode. Your heart rate spikes. Your jaw tightens. The instinct is so primal, so deeply wired into our human experience, that we want to fight back. We want to be loud. We want to be right. We want to prove that we are not weak, that we are not pushovers, that we can handle the heat. And honestly? There is a certain satisfaction in that. It feels like justice. It feels like balance. If they hit hard, we hit harder. If they speak in knives, we speak in shards. It’s easy to imagine the scene playing out exactly how we’d like it to: we deliver the perfect comeback, the piercing truth that leaves them speechless. For a fleeting second, we feel powerful. We feel seen. But then the adrenaline fades, and what’s left? Usually, it’s exhaustion. A hollow ache behind the ribs where our peace used to live. And sometimes, if we’re honest, a little regret. Because fighting fire doesn’t put out the fire. It just burns down the forest around us, leaving us standing in the ashes, wondering why we’re still so hot to the touch. So let’s talk about gentleness. Not the kind of gentleness that comes from naivety or weakness. I’m not talking about letting people walk all over you. That’s not gentleness; that’s self-abandonment. Real gentleness, the kind I’m referring to, is an act of immense strength. It is a choice made from a place of fullness, not emptiness. It’s saying, 'I will not let your roughness dictate my character.' It’s refusing to let the person who was hurtful to you become the architect of your own behavior. Think about it this way: when someone is rough with you, they are often operating out of their own pain, their own fear, their own unhealed wounds. They are throwing mud because they don’t know how to speak love. If you throw mud back, you both end up covered in it. You both end up cold and miserable. But if you stand there, clean and dry, and simply hold the space without adding to the mess, something shifts. You break the cycle. You stop being a participant in their chaos and start being a witness to it. This isn’t about forgiving them immediately. Forgiveness is a long road. This is about protecting your own spirit from being dragged down into the mud with them. It’s about deciding that your inner world is too precious to be polluted by their outer storm. What did that cost you? I ask myself this question often. Choosing gentleness when you’re angry is expensive. It costs you the immediate relief of venting. It costs you the validation of being 'right' in the argument. It costs you the dopamine hit of having the last word. It requires you to sit with the discomfort of not having the final say. And that is incredibly hard. Our culture tells us that strength is dominance. That strength is winning. That strength is making the other person apologize. But I’m here to tell you that true strength is regulation. It’s the ability to feel the rage, to acknowledge the hurt, and still choose to respond with dignity. This is especially relevant if you’ve been thinking about our conversation last week on hiding joy. When we hide our joy, it’s often because we’re afraid of bringing attention to ourselves, afraid of the backlash. But here, we’re doing the opposite. We’re stepping into the spotlight of conflict, but instead of shining a light to expose them, we’re using that light to illuminate our own boundaries. We’re saying, 'I see you, I hear you, and I will not become you.' It’s a quiet rebellion. It’s a refusal to let their narrative define your reaction. And while no one claps for this, while no one sees the victory, you feel it. You feel the lightness returning to your shoulders. You feel the clarity returning to your mind. That is the reward. Not their apology, but your peace. I want to share a small failure with you, because I’m not immune to this. A few years ago, after I had left the corporate world and was trying to rebuild my life in this quieter rhythm, I ran into an old colleague. We hadn’t spoken in months. She knew how much I valued my time, my boundaries, my new slow pace. Yet, she called me at seven in the morning on a Saturday. Just to complain. To dump. To use me as a trash can for her bad day. And I remember picking up the phone, and my blood boiling. I wanted to yell. I wanted to say, 'You do not have access to me at this hour. You do not get to take my energy when you haven’t earned it.' I could have hung up. I could have sent a text later saying I was busy. But in that moment, I chose to listen. Not because she deserved it, but because I refused to let her stress turn me into someone I didn’t recognize. I listened. I offered a few kind words. And then I gently said, 'I need to go now.' And I hung up. No anger. No drama. Just a boundary held with kindness. Later, I felt tired, yes. But I also felt proud. I hadn’t let her roughness turn my morning rough. I had kept my morning soft. That small moment taught me that gentleness isn’t passive. It’s active. It’s a muscle I have to exercise every single day. Let’s sit in that for a second. Society loves the idea of bouncing back. We want to heal quickly, move on, forget the pain. We treat emotional recovery like a sprint. But being gentle with someone who was rough with you is not a sprint. It’s a marathon. It’s a daily practice. Some days, you will succeed. You will respond with grace. Other days, you will snap. You will say the thing you wish you hadn’t. You will carry the resentment home like a heavy bag. And that’s okay. Imperfect progress is still progress. Honoring grief as part of growth means acknowledging that it hurts. It means admitting that their actions caused damage. But it also means refusing to let that damage dictate your future interactions. We often think that being gentle means we are forgetting the past. But it’s actually the opposite. It means we remember the past clearly, we honor the pain, and we still choose a different path forward. It’s a conscious decision to not repeat the cycle. If you were raised in a house where yelling was the norm, choosing silence is revolutionary. If you were treated with coldness, choosing warmth is brave. You are rewriting the script. You are showing up for yourself when the world gets heavy, not by fighting the world, but by protecting your inner sanctuary. That is resilience. Not the loud, dramatic kind, but the quiet, steady kind. So how do we practice this? How do we cultivate this soft edge? Start small. Notice when you feel the urge to match energy. Pause. Take that breath with me again. Feel your feet on the ground. Remind yourself that you are safe. You don’t need to defend yourself with aggression. Your presence is enough. You can say no without raising your voice. You can set a boundary without assigning blame. You can leave a room without slamming the door. These small acts of gentleness accumulate. They build a reservoir of inner calm that no one can drain. Also, look inward. Ask yourself, why does their roughness trigger me so deeply? Is it because I fear I am weak? Is it because I crave their approval? Often, our reaction to others’ roughness reveals our own unhealed spots. By approaching these moments with curiosity rather than judgment, we begin to heal. We stop seeing them as enemies and start seeing them as humans acting out of their own pain. This doesn’t excuse their behavior, but it frees you from carrying the weight of their intent. You are not responsible for fixing them. You are only responsible for staying true to yourself. And that is a heavy burden, but it is a noble one. It is the work of a lifetime, and it is worth every step. When you choose gentleness, you give a gift to the world. You disrupt the cycle of violence, whether it’s physical, verbal, or emotional. You show the next generation, or the friend beside you, or even the person across from you, that there is another way. You model a strength that cannot be broken by external forces. This is the unsung heroism of everyday life. It’s not found in grand gestures or heroic rescues. It’s found in the quiet moments when you choose kindness over cruelty, patience over panic, and love over fear. It’s found in the way you hold yourself together when everything around you is falling apart. Remember, you are not alone in this. We are all navigating this terrain. We are all struggling with our own triggers, our own histories, our own desires for revenge or resolution. But we can support each other. We can remind each other that gentleness is not weakness. It is the highest form of courage. So tonight, as you wind down, check in with yourself. Where have you been rough with yourself today? Where have you been gentle? Celebrate the moments of gentleness. Forgive the moments of roughness. And tomorrow, try again. Take a breath with me. Feel the peace that comes from knowing you are standing strong, not by fighting the world, but by holding your center. You are doing better than you think. You are stronger than you know. And you are worthy of the softness you offer, even when it feels hard to give. Thank you for listening, for sharing this space, and for being the kind of person who chooses gentleness even when it’s hard. I’ll see you next time. Until then, be gentle with yourself. Take care.