God Forgot to Make Me Gentle

"A raw and emotionally powerful short story about a woman shaped by pain, survival, and defiance. “God Forgot to Make Me Gentle” explores the journey of someone who was never given softness but forged strength from the storms she endured. A bold reflection on trauma, identity, and what it means to be unapologetically real in a world that demands silence. Perfect for fans of feminist writing, emotional resilience, and authentic storytelling."

People always said I was too loud, too blunt, too much.

They said I should smile softer. Laugh quieter. Be easier to love.

But I was never wired that way. I wasn’t made for soft landings or quiet exits.

God forgot to make me gentle.

Or maybe He didn’t forget.

Maybe He knew I wouldn’t survive if I was.

I grew up in a house where silence was currency.

Where apologies were swallowed and pain was passed down like an heirloom.

My mother cried into dishwater. My father drank his anger from a chipped mug.

And I? I broke things. I yelled. I fought back before I was tall enough to reach the sink.

My sister used to beg me to be nicer.

“Why do you always have to push?”

Because the world pushes first.

And if I didn’t learn to push back, I would disappear.

I remember the first boy I loved.

He told me my honesty was "brutal."

Said I’d be prettier if I was “a little softer.”

I wore silence for a week just to see if it felt better.

It didn’t.

He left anyway.

I remember the first boss who called me “aggressive” because I asked for the raise I earned.

I remember the teacher who said I was “intimidating” because I spoke with fire.

And I remember the women who whispered behind my back:

“She’s difficult.”

“She’s cold.”

“She thinks she’s so strong.”

But no one ever asked why I had to be.

The truth is, I was made in survival mode.

My softness was stolen.

My gentleness was broken.

I learned to hold rage like a shield and sarcasm like a sword.

Not because I wanted to—but because no one protected me.

The world loves women who are sweet.

Who shrink.

Who say "sorry" before they speak.

I was not built for that world.

I remember the night everything cracked.

My little brother called me from a payphone at 2 a.m., crying.

He’d been kicked out of a party. Beaten up for being “too feminine.”

He said, “I wish I were like you. Hard. Tough. Unbothered.”

I didn’t know what to say.

Because I wish I were like him.

Kind.

Open.

Still believing the world might be soft again one day.

That night, I cried into my pillow like I used to when I was 10.

The tears tasted like rust.

Like all the gentle I never got to be.

But here’s the truth:

Gentleness isn’t weakness.

And strength isn’t cruelty.

And somewhere inside all of us—under the bruises, beneath the armor—there’s still a pulse that wants to be held instead of braced.

So maybe God didn’t forget.

Maybe He made me loud so I could protect the quiet ones.

Maybe He made me fierce so I could fight for those who weren’t allowed to.

Maybe He made me fire so I could burn through all the bullshit this world throws at us and still rise.

God forgot to make me gentle.

But maybe He made me real instead.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough.

“What parts of yourself did you kill just to be loved more gently?”