Softness Is the Strength I Was Denied

Softness Is the Strength I Was Denied

By [Abdul Hadi]

When I was eight, I cried because a dog died in a movie.

My father turned off the TV, looked at me, and said,

“You need to toughen up. Life doesn’t stop when you cry.”

That was my first lesson in what he believed strength looked like:

Stoic. Silent. Hardened.

That day, I stopped crying in front of him.

He wasn’t cruel.

He never raised a fist.

But he believed feelings were something you buried—not something you shared.

If he was proud, he didn’t say it.

If he was scared, he never showed it.

If he loved me, I had to read it between the lines of freshly repaired shelves and packed lunches.

His compliments were nods.

His love was unspoken.

His comfort? Nonexistent.

Once, when I fell off my bike and skinned both knees bloody, he looked down at me and said,

“It’s just skin. You’ll live.”

I did live.

But I carried the wound longer than I should have.

Not on my knees—but in my chest.

By the time I was fifteen, I had mastered the art of shutting down.

If I got rejected, I shrugged.

If I got praised, I deflected.

If I got hurt, I buried it.

He never asked me how I felt—so I stopped asking myself too.

I thought that was manhood.

I thought being a man meant being unreadable.

Untouchable.

Unshakable.

So when I became a father, I thought I would teach my son the same.

But life has a way of undoing you in the best ways.

My son, Noah, cries when he’s frustrated.

He laughs with his whole body.

He tells me every five minutes that he loves me—even when I’m just in the kitchen.

The first time he cried in my arms over something small—a lost Lego piece—I almost told him to “toughen up.”

But then I saw myself in him.

Not the hardened version, but the eight-year-old me, weeping over a dead dog and being told to swallow it.

And I couldn't do it.

Instead, I sat beside him and said,

“I know that hurts. It’s okay to cry.”

He sniffled, nodded, and hugged me tighter.

That was the day I broke a bloodline of silence.

My father thought softness was weakness.

But what I’ve learned is this:

It takes more courage to hold your child’s sorrow than to dismiss it.

It takes more strength to say “I’m sorry” than to pretend you’re never wrong.

And it takes a stronger man to cry than to hide behind pride.

I’m not perfect.

I still flinch when Noah cries in public.

I still feel guilt when I show emotion in front of others.

But I’m learning.

Every time I hold space for my son’s heart, I hold space for my own.

Last month, we visited my father.

Noah ran up to him, arms wide open. “Grandpa!”

My father smiled awkwardly, patted his head, and mumbled,

“You’re getting big.”

That was his version of affection.

Later, I watched from the hallway as Noah handed him a drawing—a bright, messy swirl of crayon hearts and stars.

My father looked at it for a moment and said,

“…That’s nice.”

And Noah beamed, unaware of the decades behind that quiet praise.

That night, I sat across from my father after Noah had gone to bed.

I said, “You never made space for softness.”

He looked at me, not defensive—just tired. Maybe ashamed.

He whispered,

“I didn’t know how. My father didn’t either.”

There was silence. The familiar kind.

But this time, I broke it.

“You don’t have to keep doing it that way.”

He nodded, looked down at his hands, then said something I never thought I’d hear.

“I wish I could go back. Be gentler.”

That was enough.

I didn’t need more.

I didn’t need an apology wrapped in poetry.

I just needed truth.

Now, when Noah trips and cries, I don’t flinch.

When he says “I’m scared,” I don’t try to fix it—I hold him.

When he draws something for me, I hang it up like it belongs in a gallery.

Because every gentle thing I do for him is a thread unwinding years of inherited silence.

Softness is not weakness.

Softness is empathy.

Softness is presence.

Softness is protection without punishment.

It’s the strength I never knew I needed.

It’s the strength I was denied.

And now, it’s the strength I choose.