Please don’t call me “Hard”… I survived.

I was taught to be independent before I was old enough to spell the word. The lessons in self-reliance came not through gentle encouragement but through the unyielding circumstances of life. As a Black woman, my existence is often viewed through a lens clouded by assumptions, stereotypes, and misguided notions of strength. People see me paying my own bills, fixing my own brake pads, and hustling as hard as any man, and they call me “hard.” But let me tell you: I am not “hard”. I survived.

Growing up, I had a bit of a wild streak. My world was a blend of Barbie dolls and Hot Wheels, a fusion of traditional femininity and a love for freedom. I was a girl who dreamed big but was also taught to brace for impact. The world taught me early on that softness was a luxury I could not afford. It’s not that I don’t want to be soft. I am soft by design. I am a woman. I am feminine. I am love. But life has a way of twisting that softness into something the world perceives as “hard.”

The truth is, my independence wasn’t a choice. It was a necessity. I’ve learned to rely on myself because there was no safety net waiting to catch me. I’ve walked through the fires of trauma, faced unreliable partners, and navigated environments that demanded resilience above all else. Being self-sufficient, handling life’s challenges on my own, and stepping into roles traditionally assigned to men weren’t acts of defiance. They were acts of survival.

But in the process of surviving, I’ve been forced to lean heavily into my masculine energy. It’s a protective armor I wear to navigate a world that too often doesn’t make space for me to rest in my femininity. In my romantic relationships, I long to feel secure enough to let that armor down, to exhale and simply be. Yet, I’ve rarely been afforded the chance. Security—emotional, financial, or otherwise—has been a fleeting concept in my life. The partners I’ve had often expected me to be the strong one, the fixer, the provider. And so, I carried the weight of us both, at the expense of my own softness.

“Hard.” The word stings every time I hear it. It’s a label slapped on me by those who don’t see the full picture. They see the results of my survival—the independence, the toughness, the hustle. It is always mistaken to be my essence. But they don’t see the girl who still loves flowers, who cries during romantic movies, who dreams of being cared for and cherished. They don’t see the woman who yearns to rest, to trust, to lean into love without fear of being let down.

Society has long painted Black women as pillars of strength, as if we were designed to bear the weight of the world. The “strong Black woman” trope is not a compliment; it’s a cage. It denies us the full spectrum of human emotion and experience. It tells us we can endure anything—and because we can, we must. But endurance is not the same as thriving. Strength, while admirable, should not be the sole measure of our worth.

To those who label me “hard,” I ask you to look deeper. Consider what it takes to survive in a world that often devalues your existence. Consider the sacrifices, the resilience, and the quiet moments of vulnerability that no one sees. Calling me “hard” dismisses the complexity of my journey. It reduces me to a stereotype and ignores the tenderness that still exists beneath the surface.

I am a woman with a story—a story of survival, yes, but also a story of love, hope, and the pursuit of joy. I am not ashamed of my strength, but I am so much more than that. I am a woman who longs to rest in her feminine energy, to feel safe and supported. I am a woman who dreams of a partner who sees her, truly sees her, and creates a space where she can let go of the need to always be strong.

Don’t call me “hard.” Call me resilient. Call me determined. Call me a survivor. But also call me soft, feminine, and deserving of love. Because that is who I am. I survived—not to be defined by my struggles, but to embrace all the facets of my humanity. My softness is not gone; it’s just waiting for the right moment to bloom again.

Life may have taught me to be independent, but it also taught me the value of connection. I am learning to balance my strength with my softness, to hold space for both. It’s a journey, and it’s not always easy. But every step brings me closer to reclaiming the parts of myself that the world tried to take away.

To the women who resonate with my story, know this: You are not alone. Your strength is a testament to your journey, but it does not define your entirety. You are allowed to be soft. You are allowed to rest. And you are deserving of a love that makes space for all of you.

So, please, don’t call me “hard.” I am a Black woman who survived. And in my survival, I am rediscovering my softness, my joy, and my capacity for love. I am not hard, I am human.

I am here.