A Quiet Kind of Strong: Redefining Strength in the Softest Moments

There are days when the only thing I accomplish is surviving. And even that feels like a stretch.

I used to think resilience looked a lot different than it does now. I thought it was loud and unshakable. I thought it was in the way someone held it all together, even when everything inside was coming undone. I thought it was neatly tied to productivity. Checking every box on a to-do list, smiling politely through pain, pushing forward even when your body, your spirit, begged you to stop. To rest. To be still.

But lately, I’m learning that real resilience is soft. And that softness doesn’t mean weakness. It’s the bravest kind of strength. It doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it barely makes a sound. Sometimes, it’s a whisper. A “no” you finally say with your chest. A nap you unapologetically take in the middle of chaos. A breath you decide not to rush. The choice to pause instead of powering through.

Resilience isn’t always found in grand acts of courage. It’s in the tiny, uncelebrated decisions we make every day to stay, to keep going, to heal. Sometimes, resilience is crying in the shower before breastfeeding your baby. It’s texting someone, “I can’t talk right now,” instead of pretending everything’s fine. It’s choosing not to show up perfectly, but showing up fully—raw, honest, and real.

I’ve had to redefine what it means to be strong.

As a woman navigating the ups and downs of mental health: borderline personality disorder, postpartum depression, anxiety, and the tender healing of old wounds, I’ve realized that surviving looks different when you’re also mothering. When you’re also trying to reclaim your identity, find joy in small places again, and create something solid out of the rubble of who you used to be.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not the kind of survival you see romanticized in movies or neatly packaged in inspirational posts. It’s not always “graceful” or pretty. But it’s holy. Sacred. Because it’s real. It’s gritty. It’s life-saving.

Resilience might be you sitting on the bathroom floor at 2 a.m., rocking your baby back to sleep while silently rocking yourself, too. Maybe you're humming lullabies through tears or letting the sound of your breath fill the silence when your thoughts get too loud. Maybe you're barely holding on, but you're still holding on. And that counts.

Resilience might be choosing therapy even when it terrifies you. When the idea of opening old wounds makes your skin crawl, but you show up anyway. It might be journaling on days when your thoughts feel like a tangled knot, and your words come out in fragments. It might be whispering “I’m still here” to yourself in the morning before anyone else wakes up, even when you’re not sure how long you can keep going.

And I’ve learned that matters.

That is enough.

We don’t talk enough about the quiet kind of strength. The kind that doesn’t get awards or likes or standing ovations. The kind that lives in the shadows of early mornings and late nights, in the in-between moments where it feels like the world has forgotten you. We glorify hustle and overachievement, but there’s something sacred about simply staying.

There’s something deeply profound about a woman who is in the thick of healing, who is navigating her inner storms while still pouring cereal into little bowls, still kissing foreheads, still trying to speak kindness over herself even when her mind whispers otherwise.

There’s a deep resilience in those of us who keep choosing to love ourselves. Clumsily and , imperfectly. Despite everything we’ve been through.

Some days, I don’t love myself in grand, revolutionary ways. Some days, self-love looks like brushing my teeth. It looks like eating something nourishing even when I have no appetite. It looks like asking for help, even though I was taught to be the strong one. It looks like forgiving myself for not doing “enough,” and realizing that breathing, that simply being, is already a miracle in motion.

Motherhood has stretched me in ways I never expected. I thought I was stretched out in my past with mundane things. But this is different. It has broken me open and shown me parts of myself I didn’t know existed both the shadow and the light. There are days I feel like I’m failing, when I look at the messy house and the unread texts and the undone dishes and feel shame try to settle into my bones. But then I look at my children, and I see how they still reach for me with trust, how they laugh with their whole bellies, how they love me in my undone state—and I realize, maybe I’m not failing at all.

Maybe I’m just human.

And maybe that’s enough.

To the person reading this who feels like they are barely keeping their head above water—I see you. I am you. You are not alone. You don’t have to be everything for everyone. You don’t have to be strong all the time. You don’t have to have it all figured out. You are allowed to unravel. You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to heal at your own pace.

Your softness is not a flaw. Your tears are not weakness. Your messy, complicated, beautiful truth is a testament to your strength.

There is resilience in your breath. There is resilience in your pause. There is resilience in your refusal to give up on yourself, even when the world tells you that your worth is tied to your output, your appearance, and your performance.

But you, just as you are, are worthy.

Milk and Honey

Every part of you. The healing parts. The hurting parts. The unsure parts. The tired parts. The dreaming parts. The parts that ache and the parts that bloom.

You don’t have to do anything extraordinary to prove your value. Your existence is already proof. You are already doing the sacred work of living, of trying, of loving. And that matters more than you know.

So today, if the only thing you did was survive, I hope you know how incredibly brave that is.

If the only thing you managed was to show up—raw, imperfect, tender—I hope you feel how powerful that is.

And if you woke up and whispered to yourself, “I’m still here,” then that, my love, is the loudest, most courageous declaration of all.

That counts.

That matters.

That’s enough.

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Pen & Pause Prompt:

What does resilience look like when no one’s watching?

Explore this in your journal, voice notes, or even a quiet prayer. You can even share here if your heart is in it!. Let yourself be honest, tender, and unfiltered.

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Soft Strength Playlist

A few songs for those quiet, resilient moments:

“Blessed” – Jill Scott

“Rose in the Dark” – Cleo Sol

“Get It Together” – India.Arie

“Broken Clocks” – SZA

“Almeda” – Solange

Put these on, close your eyes, and remember you’re allowed to exhale.

Click the Spotify link here!

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Reading Nugget:

“Resilience is not all grit and grind. It is also rest, community, softness, and knowing when to pause. We survive not only by pushing through but by reaching out.”

— From Rest Is Resistance by Tricia Hersey

If you’ve been moving through something heavy, just know: your quiet strength is enough. You’re enough, not because you do it all, but because you’re still here. That’s your superpower.

I’d love to know what resilience has looked like for you lately. Feel free to reply or comment. Your story matters here.

With softness & strength,

Angel Jae’

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Bio

Angel Jae’ is a lifestyle and wellness writer, mama of three, and founder of Nurtured Notes, a soft life space for women redefining strength through rest, healing, and radical self-love. She believes in slow mornings, honest words, and choosing herself—daily.

Words bloom best with coffee (or tea!). Help me water the garden. [Buy me a cup here.]