I’m staring at my pre-op instructions, laughing like a damn fool. I’m sure my neighbors are wondering even now if they should call somebody.

At the end of this month, I’ll be on an operating table. Major surgery. Major. And I’ve been thinking about it every day. I can’t talk my way out of this one. No charming my way around it, and no pretending I’m invincible. Which, honestly, is my default move.

Some man (an admittedly lovely man w a PhD) will hold my soft, scared, trembling body. My body that usually carries grief and labor and invisibility without asking for mercy. My body that hides fear behind a smirk. Will in just a few short weeks be left Exposed. Vulnerable. Waiting to be literally sliced into.

I’m terrified. But also…kind of fucking excited. Because for once, I get to practice something I’ve never been good at: letting myself heal. There’s a wild relief in surrendering, in letting someone else mend what I’ve been holding together with Tylenol, hot compresses, and sheer willpower.

The ghosts are here too. The memories of running on fumes, pushing through pain, and laughing loud to cover the tremble show up uninvited. But they aren’t here to haunt me. They’re teachers. Each one whispers where I ignored my body, confused resilience with self-neglect, or mistook survival for strength.

And when I picture fifty million ancestors crowding around me, craning their necks to peek at the little packet in my hands? I laugh harder. Maybe cry too. Because I feel them with me. Bearing witness. Reminding me that softening doesn’t mean weakness.

“Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”
—Audre Lorde, A Burst of Light (1988)

You know, I’ve spent my whole life curating toughness like it was my only weapon. I learned early that softness could get you hurt. People test it, exploit it, mock it. So I learned to speak first, laugh loudest, carry more than my share, and cry where nobody could see.

My younger self would’ve scoffed at this whole season. Imagine me needing surgery, and taking months off to be cared for. Imagine me stepping back. It almost feels like breaking the eldest-daughter code.

But my ghosts are quieter now. Not gone, but gentler. I can honor my toughness and still choose softness.

Softness lives in small acts: sinking into a weighted blanket, crying when the world is too much, saying no without apology, letting someone else take the wheel. Folding the pre-op packet like it’s sacred. Writing down my questions. Asking for help and actually meaning it. Feeling ridiculous, anxious, and tender all at once. In front of people. SMH.

It’s uncomfortable. Humbling. But it’s also powerful. These small acts of surrender are radical. They are Soulwork.

So here I am, counting down to surgery. Breathing into the truth that my body will need stitches, rest, blankets, soft hands, patience. And in this liminal space between fear and relief, I see clearly: softness is strength. Vulnerability is power. And reclaiming my right to rest, to heal, to be cared for—is revolutionary.

Love y’all. Mean it. If you love me back, Buy Me A Book!

If you want to sit with this in practice, I’ve created an extended journaling ritual in the paid layer—what I’m calling The Crossroads.

NEXT READS

If this essay landed with you, you might want to check out some of my other reflections on softness, boundaries, and healing:

• I Might Be Pussy – exploring softness, femininity and verbiage against expectations.
• Belly as Borderland – a memoir vignette about my body, boundaries, and claiming space for self-care.
• Corporate Mammy – reflections on overextension, labor, and reclaiming power in the workplace.