We are not taught to fight with our hearts or our voices —things like these are too delicate, too soft to be strong. To be born a warrior is to not be given any other choice than to stand on your own feet, hitting on life before it gets to you. We don’t like anything too fragile that needs to be handled with care—things made of glass. The kind of strength we long for is firm, secure, and unbreakable.
But you see, there is strength in the heart that opens to receive even a sliver of light after being engulfed in darkness for so long, strength in the hands that stretch to hold someone else’s world when it’s crumbling down. It might take time to see the strength in the way the feet lift to carry the body, not just the spine that curls under the weight of the burdens. Everything feels less chaotic when we stop trying to be strong, because we already are.
We can learn to unfold the pieces of ourselves we’ve hidden and let them be seen, be touched. We can tell the stories of our past, no matter how painful they are—we won’t need to hold back the tears because we’re learning to be vulnerable again. We will see kindness for what it truly is: the reflection of a beautiful soul in a world that can be ugly and ruthless.
You see, patience is something we never take time to understand. Why would we stay when it’s much easier to leave? Our feet are made to run, to jump high enough that we can fly above the walls, rather than breaking through them. We don’t know how to bend our knees, to join our eyelids, seeking God. But we can learn trees aren’t born, they grow.
The strength in all of us had always been there, buried beneath the grief, the sadness, and the emotions we’re too afraid to feel. But we can learn to peel the layers away and be as strong as God created us to be.