The Art of Being Both: Steel & Silk

Hey Warriors,

I am more than my illness.

More than the devices that keep my heart pumping.

More than a diagnosis, a survival story, or a walking miracle.

Because before my body started breaking down, the world had already tried to break me.

Let me take you back.

I didn’t grow up wrapped in bubble wrap.

I didn’t grow up being told the world was kind.

I didn’t have the luxury of innocence for very long.

I saw things I never should’ve seen.

Heard things I never should’ve heard.

Survived things I don’t always talk about.

Because talking about them requires softness, and softness was never part of my original survival kit.

I was taught to be hard.

To protect myself.

To stay alert.

To not cry in front of people who could weaponize my tears.

Because in this world, being a Black girl means being born into a system that wants your body, your labor, your silence, but not your softness.

And when you become a Black mother, especially a young one, that pressure triples.

The world doesn’t see your nurturing.

It sees statistics.

It doesn’t see your patience.

It sees poverty.

It doesn’t see how hard you’re trying.

It sees how fast it can judge you.

I raised babies while still trying to raise myself.

I carried them with a heart that had already been cracked open by trauma and loss.

There were times I was more tired than I knew how to say.

There were days I didn’t think I was doing it right.

There were moments I thought survival was all I’d ever know.

And when you’re in survival mode?

You can’t afford softness.

You can’t afford to sit still too long.

You can’t afford to break down.

You don’t have time to cry for real, not when there are mouths to feed, systems to dodge, and trauma to bury.

So I armored up.

Hard. Fast. Fierce.

I became everything the world demanded:

The strong Black woman. The protector. The fixer. The fighter.

The one who could handle anything, and because I could, people assumed I should.

And nowhere is that assumption more dangerous than in the doctor’s office.

Because when you’re seen as “strong,” doctors don’t always see your pain.

They assume you can handle it.

That your silence means tolerance.

That your composure means comfort.

That your high threshold is permission to ignore your cries.

I’ve sat in rooms with vitals screaming and pain radiating through my body, only to be offered Tylenol and told to “monitor it.”

I’ve watched the same symptoms treated more urgently in someone who didn’t look like me, someone allowed to be fragile without question.

Sometimes I wonder if they look at me and think, “She’s been through worse, she’ll be fine.”

But surviving trauma doesn’t mean you stop feeling pain.

Being composed doesn’t mean you’re comfortable.

Being strong doesn’t mean you should have to suffer quietly.

This idea that we can “handle more” has cost too many of us proper treatment, compassion, and basic dignity.

It’s a silent violence, one that chips away at the soul while leaving the body in agony.

And so, I’ve learned that advocating for softness also means advocating for care.

For rest.

For relief.

For being heard when I say, “This hurts.”

Because strength without softness is a slow death.

Being guarded 24/7 doesn’t just keep the world out, it keeps love out too.

It keeps peace out.

It keeps healing out.

And one day, I realized:

I wasn’t living.

I was just surviving with style.

That’s when the shift started.

Not all at once, but in pieces.

I started asking different questions.

What if I didn’t have to prove I was strong anymore?

What if being soft wasn’t weakness, but wisdom?

What if vulnerability was the next level of strength?

That’s when I started learning the art of being both.

Both steel and silk.

Both backbone and belly laugh.

Both protector and nurturer.

Both “I got this” and “Please hold me.”

It was uncomfortable at first.

Being soft felt exposed.

Felt risky.

Felt like I was betraying the part of me that had fought so hard to get here.

But then I looked at my kids.

At the way they watch me.

At the way they mimic my words, my posture, my energy.

And I realized:

I don’t want them to inherit my armor.

I want them to inherit my healing.

I want them to know they can be powerful and tender.

That their worth isn’t in how much pain they can carry quietly.

That their softness isn’t a liability — it’s a gift.

And I want that for myself too.

So I’m learning.

Learning to sit in silence without fear.

Learning to rest without guilt.

Learning to say, “I’m not okay” and let someone hold space for me.

Learning to cry and come back stronger.

This isn’t a polished transformation.

It’s messy, daily, sacred work.

But I know this much:

Being soft, as a Black mother in America, is a revolutionary act.

Because it says:

“You don’t get to define me.”

Not by my trauma.

Not by your stereotypes.

Not by how you think I should grieve, raise, speak, exist, or heal.

You don’t get to tell me I’m too much.

Or not enough.

Because I am both.

I am layered.

I am whole.

I am learning to thrive.

Not just to keep going, but to truly live.

To love.

To soften.

To be free.

So if you see me crying, laughing, praying, creating, resting, rising,

Just know I’m doing the hardest, holiest work of my life:

Becoming me.

Not the version that survived,

But the one that heals.

“Being soft, as a Black mother in America, is a revolutionary act.”

With Heart,

💙 Phoenix