Strength Sweetened

People think strength means stompin’ boots,
a voice that rattles windows,
a look that makes folks shrink back.
They call hardness power—like steel’s the only thing
that can hold a world together.

But that ain’t how I see it.

I’ve lived enough to know differently.
I’ve sharpened my tongue before,
used it like a blade—
and I’ve watched the cuts it left behind.
Words meant to defend me
ended up wounding instead of healing.

That’s when I learned:
truth poured straight, without care,
can burn and scar.
But truth laced with kindness,
like sugar stirred in tea,
slips in easy and works its medicine from the inside out.

And I learned something else too—
love can be a shield.
Not a brittle wall that shuts people out,
but a gentle barrier,
soft enough to comfort,
strong enough to guard my spirit.
When I lead with love,
I don’t have to swing a blade to keep safe.

The very sweetness that soothes others
protects me as well.

To me, that’s real strength.
It’s hands planting seeds into medicine.

It’s kneeling beside the weary,
listening instead of rushing.
It’s knowing when to hush,
when to speak,
and how to carry fire without setting the porch ablaze.

And don’t mistake sweetness for weakness.
It takes backbone to stand gentle
when the world dares you to harden.
It takes grit to hold your own fire steady
when others want you to throw it wild.

It takes wisdom to know vinegar might win the fight,
but honey wins the heart.

Some will still call it weak.
Let ’em.
They don’t know the courage it takes
to turn pain into blessing,
to lay down the blade and pick up the cup,
to pour truth so sweet that even the wary will sip it.

Yes, I’ve known the blade.
I’ve carried its edge in my mouth.
But I’ve also watched how it cuts love right out of the room.
So I chose another way—
the way of sweetened strength.

And I reckon that kind of strength—
the kind that shields without hardening,
that heals instead of harms,
that warms instead of scorches—
is stronger than steel,
and far more lasting.