Soft Places After Sharp Edges

Some people don’t grow up in safety.
Some people grow up in houses where the walls feel like teeth. Where bedtime means waiting for footsteps. Where “love” is a sharp word, always followed by silence or shouting.

And then—if they're lucky—they find somewhere new.
Maybe it’s a tiny flat shared with a tired but loving mom. Maybe it’s an uncle’s cottage in a rainy little village. Maybe it’s a place where the tea is always warm, the windows open easily, and nobody ever raises their voice to win a fight.

There’s a special kind of healing that happens in those soft places. Not all at once. Not loudly. But slowly, like a sunrise that doesn’t rush.

It’s in the morning toast that isn’t burnt.
In the cat that curls up without flinching.
In someone remembering how you take your tea.
In falling asleep without bracing yourself.

That’s real safety. Not the kind people pretend to give you while twisting your story—but the kind that asks for nothing. The kind that lets you become whoever you are when nobody’s watching.

I think a lot about kids like Jamara.
Kids who deserved better.
Kids who were failed and then found their own way back to the light, even if their hands were shaking.

And I hope if you’re one of them, you find your soft place too.
Somewhere with slow mornings, worn-out blankets, and people who listen all the way through.

Because you deserve that.
You always did.

The strongest people I know aren’t loud—they’re the ones who made gentleness out of pain.

by Onnaya