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So lately, I’ve been asking myself a question I don’t really like the answer to: when did I stop feeling soft?

Not soft as in weak. Not soft as in passive or silent. But soft as in feminine. Tender. Light. Open. Soft as in, “I trust life to hold me, I don’t have to carry it all.”
Yeah… that kind of soft.

But that softness? Whew. It’s been hard to find.
And I’ve realized, it’s not gone because I changed.
It’s gone because I’ve been forced to survive.

Every day, I’m bouncing between roles I didn’t necessarily ask to carry all at once—head of household, sole provider, momager, corporate baddie, creative visionary, healer, homemaker… the list doesn’t end. Every one of those titles sounds powerful, right? They are… but they also hold a certain kind of masculine energy. The kind that requires structure, control, drive, and a constant output of doing.

And when you’re constantly doing, there’s barely room left to just be.

There’s no one to take the trash out every day.
There’s no one to rub your back after a 12-hour day.
There’s no softness waiting at home because you are the softness and even she’s too tired to show up anymore.

Physical labor, overstimulation, and the constant mental checklist of keeping a household, a child, a job, and a dream running smoothly? It chips away at your sensuality, your patience, your playful flirt, your ability to linger in the mirror and say, “Damn, I look good today.” Because sometimes, looking good feels like one more task, one more expectation. And you’re just… tired.

It’s wild how quickly femininity can slip away when there’s no space made for it.
And I’ll be honest friends, I don’t like that for me.

I miss being delicate. Submissive. I miss lounging in robes and taking time with my haircare. I miss slow mornings at the gym. I miss the part of me that wasn’t always bracing for impact or prepping for the next fire to put out. That version of me was magic. And she still lives here… she’s just buried under the grind.

I know this isn’t just my story.
It’s the story of so many women who’ve had to hold it all together for so long that they forgot how to let themselves fall apart. Or rest. Or receive. Or be held.
So many women whose softness turned into survival.
And it’s not fair.
And it’s not feminine.
But it’s real.

I’m slowly learning that reclaiming my femininity isn’t just about bubble baths and candles. It’s about boundaries. It’s about asking for help—even when it feels foreign as fuck. It’s about honoring my exhaustion without guilt. It’s about doing less and feeling more. It’s about calling my power back from every space that demanded I show up like a man just to be respected.

Because I deserve softness.
Xoxo, Drea