For a long time, I confused my softness with weakness.

I think part of me still does—sometimes quietly, sometimes in the background. That internalised voice that says you need to be tougher, or they’re not taking you seriously because you’re kind. But what I’m learning—slowly, humbly, and often through real-world tests—is that softness and strength are not opposites. In fact, when they meet, that’s where real power lives.

That’s what led to this moment the other week, when I knocked on my neighbour’s door around 11 pm. He’d been loud—again—on a school night, and my son needed sleep. So did I. I wasn’t aggressive, I wasn’t rude. I just knocked, calmly, and waited to speak to him. But instead of coming to the door, he opened his upstairs window and started shouting down.

He didn’t want conversation.
He wanted power.
He wanted to rattle me.

He said I shouldn’t be knocking at that time—even though it was his noise that had woken the house. He brought up my dog barking during the daytime as a reason I had no right to speak up. And then he told me that next time my dog barks, he’ll come round and fight me.

That’s when I laughed.

Because what he didn’t realise is that the part of me that used to be afraid in moments like this is no longer running the show.

I’m not here to throw fists over petty neighbour disputes. But I’ve trained in jiu-jitsu for years. I’ve gone toe-to-toe with men bigger and stronger than me. I know what I’m capable of. I know that if someone genuinely threatens me or enters my space, I won’t freeze—I’ll respond. I’ll do what needs to be done. And honestly? I’d more than oblige.

Not because I’m violent. But because I’m not scared of that side of myself anymore.

For years, I buried it. I played nice. I avoided conflict at all costs. Even in rugby, where I thrived, I didn’t fully own that fire inside me. But jiu-jitsu changed that. It showed me how to harness power without ego. It brought out a grounded kind of strength—calm, alert, aware.

So when my neighbour shouted down from the window—half my weight, pushing 60, puffing himself up with empty threats—I didn’t flinch. Because underneath the absurdity of the moment, I could see the truth: he thought I was weak because I was calm.

But calm doesn’t mean powerless.
Kind doesn’t mean passive.
Soft doesn’t mean unsafe.

And in that moment, I realised something important.
What I used to call weakness—my empathy, my gentleness, my restraint—wasn’t weakness at all. It was strength in a deeper form.

Real strength is knowing you can hurt someone—but choosing not to.
Real strength is knocking on a door to protect your child’s sleep, not to protect your pride.
Real strength is laughing at empty threats because you know exactly who you are, and you don’t need to prove it.

I don’t go looking for fights. And I’d never start one. But if someone ever tried to bring one to my doorstep—truly—I’d meet it with full presence. Not from rage. Not from wounded pride. From clarity.

That clarity, I think, is the part that scared him the most.

Because when a man stands calmly in his centre, no longer performing toughness, but truly knowing his edges—that’s unnerving for those who only know how to bark.

So maybe this blog isn’t about a petty neighbour dispute after all. Maybe it’s about me finally seeing that the softness I used to hide—the softness I used to hate—is actually my greatest strength.

Because it’s not softness or strength.
It’s both.
Alive in me.
Together.