The Sacred Work of Softness

Some people are carrying entire wars inside of them—

resentments stacked like sandbags,

grief turned to rot,

rooms sealed off for so long that nothing can breathe.

And it leaks.

Into how they speak.

Into how they touch.

Into how they leave—or never arrive at all.

It’s not always their fault.

But it’s not yours to fix.

You can love someone without walking barefoot through their broken glass.

You can hold compassion without becoming their casualty.

You don’t have to take it in, spin a horror out of it, give it back, or brutalize yourself with it.

You don’t have to pass it along.

You don’t have to metabolize someone else’s poison as if it were medicine.

You don’t have to echo their pain to prove you’re listening.

You don’t have to contort your nervous system to accommodate their chaos.

You can witness without absorbing.

You can stay soft without becoming a sponge.

You can attune without being consumed.

You can remain awake without being flayed open.

This is sacred work:

To feel the fire without stepping into it.

To choose what you carry.

To choose what you pass on.

To stay whole.