There’s been a question circling in me lately:
Can I safely embody power now, without it being tied to survival?

Because for most of my life, power was something I wore like armour.
It was necessary.
It helped me stay safe in environments that weren’t.
It let me feel something when I was otherwise overwhelmed or empty.
It gave me control when I felt powerless.

But now—things are different.
I’m not in survival mode anymore.
I’m healing. I’m aware. I’m more me than I’ve ever been.

And with that comes the question:
What does power look like when I’m not defending myself anymore?

I think part of me is still afraid to fully own my strength.
Not because I don’t trust it—but because I’m afraid of how it might be received.
There’s this lingering fear that my full presence—my clarity, my confidence, my depth—might be “too much.”
Too intense. Too honest. Too… real.

I’ve seen people flinch when I’m fully present.
Not because I’m trying to intimidate—but because I’ve spent so long carrying that survivor’s energy.
The edge. The readiness. The weight.

It’s softened now. But still—there’s that voice that says,
“Tone it down. Don’t make them uncomfortable.”

And underneath that, I’m still unlearning the old belief that softness is weakness.
That being gentle will get you hurt.
That opening your heart will be used against you.

Intellectually, I know that’s not true anymore.
But my body still remembers otherwise.
Still braces.

Yet something is shifting.
I’m beginning to see that real power isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to prove anything.
Real power can cry. Can pause. Can stay present without collapsing.

Softness isn’t the absence of strength.
It’s what happens after strength has nothing left to prove.

I’ve also started becoming more intentional about who gets access to my power.
In the past, I gave it away too easily.
I let people close who hadn’t earned it—because I was starving for connection.
I handed out depth in places that couldn’t hold it.

But now?
If someone can’t meet me with equal presence, care, and honesty, I don’t offer the same depth.
Not out of coldness—out of self-respect.

Not everyone gets all of me.
And that boundary is power, too.

So now I’m sitting with this:
Letting power be presence, not protection.

Letting it be the quiet steadiness I carry when I walk into a room,
not because I need to defend myself—
but because I’m grounded.
Because I’m here.

No performance. No mask.
Just me—
without the armour.

And that…
That feels like a new kind of strength.