There was a time when I thought striving was holy. When exhaustion felt like evidence of obedience and productivity looked like purpose. I wore “strong” like armor, stayed busy to feel valuable, and moved fast so I didn’t have to feel deeply. I believed that if I just pushed a little harder, stayed a little tougher, and carried a little more, then I was doing life right. But somewhere along the way, God started whispering something different. And at first, I didn’t recognize His voice because it sounded like rest. It sounded like slowing down. It sounded like softness.

This season I’m in now doesn’t clap for hustle. It doesn’t reward overextension. Striving no longer feels holy to me. It feels loud, forced, and misaligned. I realized I wasn’t driven by faith; I was driven by survival. Survival mode had me proving, performing, and protecting instead of trusting. I wasn’t waiting on God. I was outrunning Him. And the truth is, you can be strong and still be scared. You can be accomplished and still be depleted. I was both.

Here’s what God has been teaching me. Softness isn’t weakness. Softness is freedom. It’s the moment you realize you don’t have to clench your jaw through life anymore. You don’t have to earn your worth, explain your boundaries, or stay hard to stay safe. Softness is choosing peace over pressure. It’s letting your shoulders drop because you finally trust who’s holding you. It’s not losing your edge. It’s reclaiming your breath.

This season isn’t about quitting ambition. It’s about unlearning survival. I’m releasing the version of me that learned how to cope, not how to rest. The version that confused urgency with importance and control with strength. I’m relearning surrender. Real surrender. Not the pretty, Instagram kind, but the quiet, daily choice to stop forcing outcomes and start trusting timing. To let God lead instead of managing every detail myself.

Second Samuel 22 reminds me exactly who has been doing the strengthening all along.

“The Lord has rewarded me according to my righteousness… He trains my hands for battle; my arms can bend a bow of bronze… He makes my feet like the feet of a deer; He enables me to stand on the heights.” 

What I love about this passage is that David doesn’t boast about his own grit. He acknowledges that his strength was given, guided, and guarded by God. God made him steady. God made him strong. God taught him how to stand without scrambling.

That’s the shift. I’m no longer trying to manufacture strength. I’m letting God define it. I don’t need to rush to be powerful because power rooted in God doesn’t panic. It waits. It listens. It softens where it once braced. And in that softness, I’m discovering a woman who is grounded, present, and unshaken. Not because life is easy, but because I finally stopped fighting for control and started trusting the One who’s been training me all along.

 

The Strong Black Woman Mentality is Not Cute

Somewhere along the way, we decided the Strong Black Woman was the goal. Unbreakable. Unbothered. Always holding it together. Always handling it. Always capable. And listen, I wore that title proudly. I earned it. I survived on it. But I need to say this plainly and without romanticizing it. The Strong Black Woman mentality is not cute. It’s costly. It’s exhausting. And for a long time, it was killing my softness while calling it strength.

My womanhood used to be measured by performance. By output. By how much I could carry without dropping the ball or losing my composure. Productivity became my personality. Achievements became my proof. Rest felt lazy. Asking for help felt weak. And slowing down felt irresponsible. I didn’t know how just to be. I only knew how to do, manage, lead, fix, and push. I thought if I kept producing, I’d be safe. Respected. Needed. Untouchable.

Then layer a military structure on top of that. A system that rewards endurance, discipline, and execution. Where emotions are managed, not expressed, where mission comes first, and everything else must fall in line. I learned how to perform under pressure, lead in stress, and keep moving even when my body and heart were begging for a pause. Survival became second nature. Precision became identity. Pace became law. And that mindset didn’t clock out when I took the uniform off.

It followed me into motherhood. Into marriage. Into wifehood. Into every room I entered. I carried the same armor everywhere. Strong mom. Strong wife. Strong leader. Strong woman. I held everything together because I didn’t believe anyone else would if I didn’t. I stayed sharp so I wouldn’t fall apart. I stayed busy so I wouldn’t feel. I stayed in control because vulnerability felt unsafe.

And here’s the truth I had to face. That armor saved me once. It protected me when I needed to survive. It helped me navigate systems that weren’t built with softness in mind. It kept me standing when falling felt like it would swallow me whole. But survival tools aren’t meant to be a permanent residence. What protected me then was now slowly costing me.

Hardness became automatic. My shoulders stayed tense. My nervous system stayed alert. My spirit stayed guarded. I didn’t realize how loud my inner world was until I finally slowed down and heard it asking for peace. Not permission. Peace.

I had to admit that constantly being strong was no longer a flex. It was a trauma response. And the most challenging part wasn’t laying the armor down. It was admitting I didn’t need it anymore. This season is asking me to soften, not because I’m weak, but because I’m finally safe. And choosing peace over performance is the strongest thing I’ve ever done.

 

God Is Teaching Me a New Pace

God is teaching me a new pace, and I won’t lie, it disrupted everything I thought I knew about productivity, purpose, and progress. I used to move fast because slowing down felt dangerous. Like if I paused, something would fall apart. Like the rest, it was permission to lose momentum. I treated pace like urgency and urgency like faith. If I wasn’t doing something, fixing something, or chasing the next thing, I felt behind. But God doesn’t rush, and He finally made me face the truth that I was running on adrenaline, not alignment.

Slowing down used to come with guilt. Heavy guilt. The kind that whispers you’re wasting time or not doing enough. I had to unlearn the lie that constant movement equals faithfulness. Rest is not a lack of discipline; it is one. It is an instruction. Not optional. Not negotiable. Isaiah 30:15 says,

“In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength.” 

I missed that for years because I was too busy doing things for God instead of being with Him. Strength didn’t come from pushing harder. It came from learning how to stop.

This new pace isn’t lazy. It’s intentional. I’m not slowing down because I lack ambition. I’m slowing down because I respect myself enough to develop instead of deplete. Productivity no longer means how much I produce. It means how well I am becoming. Am I regulated? Am I present? Am I connected? Am I aligned? Growth now looks like self-development, emotional maturity, spiritual depth, and discernment. I’m no longer impressed by how full my calendar is. I’m impressed by how grounded I am while living it.

Choosing a new pace means choosing fewer things with deeper intention. I stopped saying yes out of fear and started saying yes out of clarity. I don’t pile my days anymore. I leave space on purpose. I schedule rest the same way I used to schedule work. I protect my mornings. I take slower walks. I sit with God before I sit with my responsibilities. I choose one meaningful commitment instead of five shallow ones. I learned that when everything matters, nothing does.

This season has taught me that quiet is not empty. It’s fertile. God does His deepest work in the stillness I once avoided. And the peace that comes from this new pace is proof I’m finally moving in step with Him. Not ahead. Not behind. Just aligned.

 

The first Presence used to feel like a luxury I couldn’t afford. When life was loud, demanding, and constantly pulling, distraction felt like survival. Staying busy kept me from feeling too much. Multitasking kept me from slowing down. If I stayed ahead of the noise, I didn’t have to sit with it. Distraction wasn’t laziness, it was armor. It helped me function. It helped me cope. And for a long time, it worked until it didn’t.

Presence Is the New Discipline

God has been calling me into something more profound. Not more information. Not doing more. Embodied living. Fully here. Fully in this moment. Not rushing to the next task, not rehearsing tomorrow’s worries, not rehashing yesterday’s conversations. Just here. With Him. With myself. With the people right in front of me. And this is the work that has undone me the most, because presence requires honesty. You can’t be present and numb at the same time.

Presence is the new discipline in my life. Not discipline as punishment, but discipline as devotion. As practice. As a choice. I used to think spiritual maturity looked like consistency in productivity. Now I know it seems like attention consistency. God doesn’t compete for my time. He waits for my awareness. And when I finally stopped scattering myself across a thousand thoughts and commitments, I realized how much He had been trying to say to me all along.

In marriage, presence looks like listening without planning my response. It seems like making eye contact, softening my tone, and not treating conversations like checklists. In motherhood, it looks like putting the phone down, getting on the floor, and letting moments unfold without rushing. In daily life, it’s choosing to feel my body, notice my breath, and stay grounded even when urgency tries to steal my peace. I’m learning that what I rush through, I don’t remember. And what I’m not present for, I can’t fully love.

Letting go of urgency has been uncomfortable because urgency once made me feel important. Needed. Efficient. But urgency is a liar. It tells you everything is critical when most things are just noise. Choosing attention over urgency has slowed my world down and sharpened my discernment. I no longer respond immediately. I pause. I breathe. I ask God before I act. Presence has given me back my authority.

And here’s the part I didn’t expect. Presence has deepened my intimacy with God and myself. When I stopped numbing and rushing, I started hearing Him more clearly. I began to understand my own needs, emotions, and limits. Presence has made me kinder to myself. Be more patient with others. More aware of what actually matters. I don’t need more time. I need more presence. And in this season, that’s the discipline I’m committed to mastering.

 

Soft Power Is Still Power

I used to think power had to be loud to be real. Assertive. Visible. Commanding. If you weren’t speaking up, pushing back, or making your presence known, you risked being overlooked. I learned early that being gentle could get you dismissed and being quiet could get you steamrolled. So I became sharp. Strategic. Ready. I mastered the art of staying ten steps ahead so nothing caught me off guard. I thought that was a strength. I thought that was power.

But God has been dismantling that definition piece by piece. Soft power is still power. It just doesn’t beg for attention. It doesn’t posture. It doesn’t react to prove a point. It stands steady without explanation. Power, when rooted in God, doesn’t need to dominate to be effective. It moves with discernment, not ego. With confidence that doesn’t have to announce itself.

There’s a vast difference between proving and trusting. Proving is loud. It’s exhausting. It’s reactive. It makes you explain yourself to rooms that aren’t assigned to you so that they can understand you. Trusting is quiet. It’s grounded. It lets God defend what you no longer feel the need to justify. I spent years proving I was capable, competent, strong, and worthy. This season, I’m trusting that I already am. And that shift has changed how I lead, how I speak, and how I respond.

Feminine strength doesn’t show up as force. It shows up as boundaries. As standing firm without hardening your heart. As wisdom that listens before it speaks. As gentleness that doesn’t require permission. Proverbs 31:25 says she is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future. That kind of woman isn’t frantic. She’s anchored. Opinions do not rush her. She’s not shaken by resistance. She knows who she is and who sent her.

Second Corinthians 12:9 reminds me that God’s power is made perfect in weakness. Not weakness as in incapability, but as surrender. As dependence. As the courage to soften where you once armored up. I’m learning that the moments I choose restraint over retaliation, silence over reaction, and wisdom over winning are moments of real strength. I don’t need to correct every misunderstanding. I don’t need to respond to every comment. I don’t need to explain every boundary. That’s power too.

Leading without force looks like creating space rather than exerting control. It looks like modeling calm instead of urgency. It seems like choosing timing over immediacy and alignment over applause. Some battles are won by not swinging. Some authority is exercised by walking away. And in this season, I’m discovering that my softest moments are also my strongest. Not because I stopped being powerful, but because I finally trusted God to define what power actually looks like.

 

What I’m Letting Go Of in This Season

This season requires release. And that might be the hardest lesson yet. I used to think growth meant adding more. Once again, God has been teaching me that maturity often looks like subtraction. Like loosening your grip. Like trusting that what’s meant for you doesn’t need to be chased into alignment.

I’m letting go of the hustle that pretended to be faith. The kind that says, “If I just work harder, God will meet me halfway.” The type that confuses exhaustion with obedience and calls burnout “being called.” I was busy doing things for God while ignoring what He was asking of me. I learned how to pray while pushing myself past my limits. I learned how to quote scripture while neglecting my own need for rest. And I finally had to admit that hustle was never holy. It was fear wearing a faithful mask.

I’m also releasing the comparison and the timelines I quietly imposed on myself. The silent deadlines. The unspoken expectations. The constant measuring of my progress against someone else’s highlight reel. I used to believe that if I wasn’t “there” by a certain age or season, I was failing. But comparison doesn’t motivate, it distorts. It keeps you chasing someone else’s calling instead of tending to your own. God’s timing doesn’t rush, and it doesn’t apologize. So I’m letting go of the pressure to keep up and choosing to stay aligned instead.

There are roles I’m walking away from, too. Not because I can’t do them, but because I’m no longer meant to. Just because you’re capable doesn’t mean you’re called. I stayed in spaces out of loyalty, obligation, and identity long after God had shifted my assignment. I was holding onto versions of myself that felt familiar but no longer fit who I’m becoming. And outgrowing a role doesn’t mean you failed at it. It means you listened.

This season is also teaching me a softer truth about closed doors. God doesn’t always slam them. Sometimes, he waits for you to stop pushing. To stop forcing access. To stop insisting on staying where grace has quietly lifted. Closed doors can be gentle when we’re willing to let go of control. When we stop trying to pry them open and trust that protection can look like redirection.

Letting go isn’t a loss. It’s alignment. It’s making room for peace. It’s choosing faith over fear. And in this season, I’m learning that the bravest thing I can do is trust God enough to release what no longer belongs in my hands.

 

What Softening Has Given Me

Softening didn’t make my life quieter. It made me more peaceful on the inside. And that has changed everything. I used to believe peace came after everything was handled, fixed, and figured out once the calendar cleared. Once the decision was made. Once the pressure was lifted. But the peace I live with now isn’t circumstantial. It didn’t arrive because life slowed down. It came because I did. Softening taught me that peace isn’t something you earn at the finish line. It’s something you choose at the altar of surrender.

One of the most surprising gifts of softening has been confidence. Real confidence. Not the loud kind. Not the type that needs validation or comparison. But confidence rooted in identity. I know who I am now, and I’m not scrambling to prove it. When you stop hardening yourself against the world, you stop performing for it too. I don’t need to overexplain my decisions. I don’t need to compete for space. I don’t need to rush to be seen. I trust God enough to stand where He places me, and that trust has settled me deeply.

Softening has regulated my nervous system in ways no productivity hack ever could. My body is no longer braced for impact. My shoulders aren’t locked in defense mode. My mind isn’t constantly scanning for the next crisis. I breathe differently now. I move differently. I respond, instead of react. And with that, calm has come clearer discernment. When you’re no longer operating from anxiety or urgency, you hear God more clearly. Decisions come with less noise. Boundaries come with less guilt. Wisdom flows when your spirit isn’t in fight-or-flight mode.

This softness has also brought alignment to every role I carry. In my womanhood, I’m more present and attuned to myself, rather than at war with my body and emotions. In my wifehood, I lead with grace instead of control, trust instead of defense. I listen better. I soften my tone. I choose connection over correction. In motherhood, I show up with patience instead of performance. My kids don’t get any of my energy left over anymore. They call me grounded and present.

Even in leadership, softening didn’t strip me of authority. It refined it. I lead with discernment, not dominance. With steadiness, not urgency. I don’t force outcomes. I steward people and spaces with intention and clarity. Softness has taught me that power doesn’t need to be sharp to be effective.

What softening has given me isn’t something I want to outgrow. It’s not a phase. It’s a posture. A way of living rooted in trust, peace, and alignment with who God created me to be. And I’m not going back.

 

Reflection

If you’re reading this and feeling a quiet ache for softness, I need you to hear this first. You are not lazy. You are not weak. You are not losing your edge, your ambition, or your calling. You’re responding to an invitation. And the guilt you feel for wanting a gentler life isn’t coming from God. It’s coming from survival patterns you were praised for and never given permission to outgrow.

So let me say what many women need to hear. Wanting softness doesn’t mean you’re giving up. It means you’ve grown. It means you’ve lived long enough to know that grinding your way through life is not a badge of honor. It means your spirit is tired of bracing and ready to breathe. And that desire doesn’t need to be justified. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for evolving. Not your past self. Not the people who benefited from you staying hard. Not the world that only learned how to value you when you were exhausted.

God is not stripping you of strength in this season. He is refining it. He’s taking what was once fueled by fear and turning it into power rooted in trust. He’s softening the parts of you that learned to stay guarded so you could survive. And He’s strengthening the parts of you that know how to stand steady without force. Refinement doesn’t look dramatic. Sometimes it seems quiet. Sometimes it looks like rest. Sometimes it looks like it’s no longer responding to what used to get your attention.

You are allowed to change without announcing it. You’re allowed to grow without defending it. You’re allowed to move differently, choose differently, and live differently without apology. The woman you are becoming does not need permission from the woman you used to be. And she certainly doesn’t need consensus from the people who knew the old version of you. Becoming doesn’t require an audience. It requires obedience.

If you’re in a season where God is asking you to soften, lean in. Let yourself receive instead of resisting. Let peace lead you, not pressure. Let grace do what grinding never could. You’re not behind. You’re being held. You’re not losing ground. You’re gaining alignment.

 

Closing Prayer and Affirmation

God, I release the need to strive, prove, and protect myself. I surrender the version of strength that kept me surviving but never allowed me to rest. I ask You to teach me how to soften without fear and stand without force. Refine my strength, root me in grace, and lead me into becoming who You designed me to be. I trust You with my pace, my peace, and my path. Amen.

Affirmation

I am allowed to soften. I am safe to rest. My strength is being refined. I trust God as I become.

 

If you don’t know where to start, start on paper with God. This is precisely why I created my Prayer Journal and the Journal Companion. Not as another task, not as a productivity tool, but as a sacred place to slow your thoughts down and hear Him clearly. It’s designed for women who are tired of carrying everything internally and ready to lay it down honestly. One prayer at a time. One breath at a time.

You don’t need a perfect routine to use it. You don’t need eloquent words. You need willingness. The journal gives you guided space to write what you’re afraid to say out loud, surrender what you’ve been gripping too tightly, and invite God into the parts of your life you’ve been managing alone. It’s where softness meets clarity, where rest becomes practice, not an idea.

Before you rush into changing your schedule, your goals, or your identity, sit with God first. Open the journal. Write the truth. Ask Him what He’s redefining in you. Let Him speak before you act. This season doesn’t require urgency; it needs attention. And this journal is meant to support that kind of presence.

If God is calling you to slow down, soften, and realign, let this be a tool that walks with you rather than pushes you. You don’t need to hurry your becoming. Sit with Him. Write with Him. Let Him lead.