Behind the Seams

There have been countless moments in my life when I had every reason to become bitter.

I have been abused, bullied, rejected, abandoned, violated, betrayed and left to question my own worth. There were seasons when life stripped me of almost everything I thought I needed to survive. Every experience whispered the same lie:

“Close your heart. Stop trusting people. Stop caring so much.”

For a long time, I believed that becoming harder was the only way to protect myself.

The world often celebrates toughness. We admire people who appear unaffected, who never cry, who never let anyone get too close. Somewhere along the way, softness became associated with weakness.

But I don’t believe that anymore.

After years of therapy, self-reflection and confronting my own pain, I have realised something profound.

Softness is not the absence of strength.

Softness is strength that has chosen compassion over bitterness.

Every painful experience I have lived through could have changed the way I love people. It could have convinced me that everyone will eventually leave. It could have taught me to stop believing in people altogether.

Instead, it taught me something different.

It taught me how deeply emotional safety matters.

It taught me to listen more carefully.

It taught me that healing begins when people feel safe enough to tell the truth about their pain.

I still believe in conversations.

I still believe in empathy.

I still believe people deserve to be heard before they are judged.

That doesn’t mean I no longer have boundaries.

In fact, I have stronger boundaries today than I ever did before.

I no longer believe that protecting my peace requires me to harden my heart. It simply requires me to be more intentional about who I allow close enough to hold it.

Softness doesn’t mean tolerating disrespect.

It doesn’t mean abandoning yourself to make someone else comfortable.

It doesn’t mean ignoring your needs to keep a relationship alive.

Real softness has boundaries.

It knows when to stay and when to walk away.

Growing up as a young gay Black boy in South Africa, I learned early what toughness was supposed to look like.

I was constantly told to ngqina, to toughen up, to man up, to harden myself against life.

That message followed me everywhere. Through childhood. Through school. Through the experiences that shaped my understanding of masculinity, including initiation teachings like lulwaluko. Through varsity. And even now, as a grown man, I still hear echoes of it in the way people speak about how a man should be.

Be strong. Don’t cry. Don’t feel too much. Don’t be soft.

But what people often forget is that a human being is not made of one dimension.

There is space within us for both masculine and feminine energy to exist at the same time.

My masculinity shows up when I need to protect myself. When I need to set boundaries. When I need to say no. When I need to stand firm and ensure that I am not being disrespected or emotionally harmed. It is the part of me that says: enough is enough.

My femininity shows up when I need to nurture. When I need to feel. When I need to be vulnerable enough to let someone see me fully. It is the part of me that allows softness, tenderness, empathy, and emotional honesty to exist without shame.

Neither of these parts is more important than the other.

They are both necessary for my survival.

For a long time, I was told to suppress one in favour of the other. To be “strong” meant to silence softness. To be “a man” meant to disconnect from emotional depth.

But I am learning that real strength is integration.

Real strength is knowing when to hold boundaries and when to open your heart.

Recently, I found myself reflecting on the relationships in my life.

For the first time, I realised that what I had been searching for wasn’t perfection.

It wasn’t someone who never made mistakes.

It wasn’t someone who always had the right words.

I was looking for emotional safety.

A place where difficult conversations weren’t avoided.

A place where pain could be spoken about instead of hidden.

A place where vulnerability wasn’t treated as a burden.

That realisation changed everything.

Today, I am still soft.

I still cry.

I still love deeply.

I still believe people can grow.

I still choose kindness, even after everything life has placed in front of me.

Not because I am naive.

Not because I am weak.

But because refusing to let pain define my character is one of the bravest decisions I can make.

The world may tell us that survival means hardening our hearts.

I disagree.

Sometimes the greatest act of courage is waking up every morning and choosing not to become the very thing that hurt you.

My softness is no longer something I apologise for.

It is one of the greatest strengths I possess.