There was a time I believed you.
When the ache of rejection was still raw,
and I was looking for anything—anything—
to cover the sting of being soft in a world that rewards steel.
So I put on the cold.
I studied your gospel:
Be vague. Be brief.
Say “lol” instead of “I’m hurt.”
Say “I’m just protecting my peace” when what you mean is
“I’m afraid of being needed.”
I learned your language of silence.
Of safe exits and casual shrugs.
Of spiritual bypassing cloaked in “zen.”
Of ghosting people and calling it evolution.
But something in me rebelled.
Maybe it was my God.
Maybe it was the girl in me who still wants to feel everything.
Maybe it was the horror of watching people bleed quietly
while everyone else looked away,
too busy polishing their white shirts
to notice a soul unraveling beside them.
You call that power?
I call it moral decay.
Power is not numbing your heart until it forgets how to beat.
Power is not the silence you weaponize to stay in control.
Power is not withholding affection to protect your image,
or vanishing instead of saying, “I don’t know how to love you.”
Real power is showing up anyway.
With your knees trembling.
With your voice shaky.
With your pride peeled back like an old bandage.
It is saying, “I don’t know how this ends,
but here’s my hand anyway.”
It is allowing someone to see the parts of you
that haven’t yet healed.
It is saying “I care” and meaning it,
even if the world misreads you as desperate.
I used to think being cold made me brave.
Now I know—
Only the soft survive this world with their soul intact.
So, to the ones who’ve called detachment power:
I’m not judging you.
I see you. I was you.
But I’m choosing something else now.
I’m choosing to stay open.
Even if it hurts.
Even if it costs me the last word.
Even if I never get the same in return.
Because love is not a transaction.
And tenderness is not a weakness.
And this—this soft, stubborn heart of mine—
is not a liability.
It’s a revolution.
Love Meestique,
The Empathic Social Observer
The Empathic Social Observer 