I used to think power had to be loud.
Dominant. Quick-tongued. Always certain.
But lately, I’ve found it in other places,
in the stillness before a ‘no,’
in the softness of unlearning,
in the gentle act of staying when I used to run.
When we think of power, we think of control—who wields it, who lacks it, who bends and who breaks. This is the currency of society, economics, and politics. But when I pause to consider what power means to me individually, whole landscapes of possibility unfold.
So I ask myself: “What does power look like when it’s soft, grounded, and undeniably mine?”
The answer lies wrapped in layers of tissue-thin understanding, gathered from different seasons of my life. Periodically, I must carefully peel back these delicate layers to create space for new meaning to take root.
I’m learning that reclaiming my power doesn’t require the complete dominance that would erode my sensitivity. It doesn’t need to be sharp-tongued or perpetually certain, as if doubt were a weakness rather than wisdom.
It can be quiet and gentle, yet piercing and honest.
Power, when it’s truly mine, doesn’t need to perform. It doesn’t raise its voice to be heard or demand that I abandon myself to be taken seriously.
It cradles my contradictions with tenderness. It lets me speak at my own pace. It grants me rest without negotiation.
It allows me to choose alignment, even when it disappoints others. To begin again, carrying no shame.
This kind of power doesn’t ask permission, and it requires no proof. It lives in the body, in the breath, in the unshakeable knowing that I belong entirely to myself.
And perhaps that’s the deepest reclamation of all.
Not becoming louder, but becoming truer.
Not seizing power, but remembering my version.
