Chiiiile, Please!

Dearest Gentle Healers,

It has come to this writer’s attention that among us walks a particular kind of woman. A woman both graceful and guarded. A woman who has mastered the art of carrying herself well, even when her heart has been asked to carry far too much.

And what a sight she is.

Poised.
Praying.
Pretty.
Healing.
Trying her best not to let the ache make her bitter.

Yet if one were to look a little closer—and oh, this writer always does—one would notice that beneath the polished smile and the composed reply is a woman still learning that love should not feel like war.

Now let us speak plainly, because dancing around the truth has wasted enough of our good years.

Some of us did not meet love in safe places.
Some of us met love in inconsistency.
In confusion.
In being chosen loudly one day and handled carelessly the next.
In giving the benefit of the doubt until the doubt had more furniture in the house than we did.

Chiiiile.

So now, when tenderness arrives, we do not always know whether to open the door or look through the peephole and act like we are not home.

And honestly? Who could blame us?

A woman who has had to teach herself how to survive disappointment will not suddenly become soft just because somebody arrived with a nice smile, a deep voice, and a few decent morning texts. That is not healing, beloved. That is delusion in a nice outfit.

No, what this woman seeks is not perfection.

She seeks safety.

There is a difference, though many love to act as if there is not.

Perfect love is a fairytale sold to keep women performing. Safe love is steadier. Quieter. Realer. It is the kind of love that does not vanish when conversations get uncomfortable. It is the kind of love that does not punish honesty. It is the kind of love that does not require a woman to betray her own spirit just to keep someone else comfortable.

And let it be known: a woman asking for consistency is not asking for too much.
A woman asking for patience is not asking for a miracle.
A woman asking to be handled with care is not difficult.

She is wise now.

That is what healing does. It will snatch the fairy dust out your eyes and sit you down in the fine light of truth.

For many of us, the true labor is not merely learning how to love another. It is learning how to love another without leaving ourselves behind. Without shrinking. Without silencing our needs. Without calling anxiety “chemistry” or confusion “passion.” Without mistaking emotional unavailability for mystery. Because baby, some folks are not mysterious. They are just inconsistent with good lighting.

The Gentle Healer knows this now—or at least she is learning.

She is learning that there is a difference between being private and being imprisoned. Between protecting her heart and padlocking it shut. Between discernment and self-sabotage. Between saying, “I am taking my time,” and saying, “Nobody will ever get close enough to hurt me again.”

One of those is wisdom.

The other is pain dressed up like control.

And pain has a way of making a palace out of isolation if you let it.

This writer suspects that many women have called themselves healed simply because they learned how to function without asking for anything. Learned how not to cry in front of people. Learned how to disappear inside competence. Learned how to keep the peace while their own heart sat in the corner, starving for tenderness.

But surviving love is not the same as experiencing it.

Let me say that again for the women in the back with the pretty journals and the trust issues: surviving love is not the same as experiencing it.

Real love should not feel like you are constantly bracing for impact.
Real love should not have you overthinking every pause, every shift, every silence.
Real love should not always feel like you are one wrong sentence away from being misunderstood, abandoned, or made to feel like your needs are a burden.

No, ma’am.

Love, when it is healthy, does not ask you to become less honest, less soft, less yourself.

It asks you to be present. It asks you to be open. It asks you to tell the truth. But it should also make room for your humanity. For your healing. For the places in you that are still unlearning what fear taught.

Because some of us are still unlearning the habit of going quiet when we need reassurance. Some of us are still unlearning the instinct to withdraw before we can be rejected. Some of us are still unlearning the belief that being “easy to love” means never having any feelings at all.

And that, dear Gentle Healers, is sacred work.

Messy work.
Slow work.
Holy work.

It is the work of a woman who is no longer impressed by intensity alone. A woman who wants steadiness. Reciprocity. Emotional safety. The kind of love that does not disappear the minute things get deep. The kind of love that knows how to stay in the room. The kind of love that does not need her to bleed just to prove she cares.

And if that sounds revolutionary, it is only because too many women have been taught to call suffering romantic.

This writer would like to formally decline that foolishness on behalf of us all.

The Gentle Healer is not asking for fantasy. She is asking for peace. She is asking for a love that does not make her betray all the work God has done in her. She is asking for connection that honors the woman she fought to become. She is asking to be met, not managed. Held, not handled. Cherished, not merely chosen when convenient.

So to the woman learning how to love herself while learning how to love someone else, hear this clearly:

You do not have to become cold to become wise.
You do not have to become hard to be protected.
You do not have to become unreachable to be respected.

You may be soft and discerning.
Open and boundaried.
Tender and still not to be played with.

That, in fact, is the finest kind of power.

And perhaps that is the lesson before us now. Not how to find a perfect love, but how to recognize a safe one. Not how to perform being unbothered, but how to become rooted enough in ourselves that love no longer feels like something we must survive.

Now that, dear hearts, would be a most scandalous kind of healing.

Yours in honesty, observation, and just a touch of righteous side-eye,
Coach G