Not long ago, someone said to me, “I don’t think you’re capable of being mean.”
In the context, I don’t believe it was necessarily meant to be a compliment, but in a small way, I took it as one.
I’ve turned that phrase over in my mind more than once since then. As someone who at one time—and still some times now—wouldn’t have fought the urge to voice every opinion, chime in with a retort, or use my words to cut others down in moments of frustration, this was something that took hold in my mind for the next day or two. In a world that seems to reward sharpness, quick comebacks, and the ability to be the loudest voice in the room, gentleness often gets dismissed. It’s mistaken for weakness or naivety. For being unable—or unwilling—to fight back.
But I know better. Gentleness is not the absence of strength. It’s the presence of it, held carefully.
In my best moments, I whisper when the world shouts—not because I don’t have something to say, but because I want it to be said with care, and I’ve learned what happens when I don’t.
We live in a culture that prizes boldness—particularly in women. We are told to take up space, speak our minds, and never shrink. And while those messages come from a place of good intention, they often leave little room for women who are naturally soft-spoken, deeply intuitive, and drawn to gentler expressions of strength—or the ones who would rather embody a spirit of gentle strength.
There’s a kind of bravery in being soft today. In choosing restraint when it’s easier to clap back. In leading your children with a calm presence instead of chaos. In creating a home that feels like peace, not performance.
I grew up in spaces where the people are steady, and the values are old. It’s not flashy here. And it’s never tried to be. In many ways, that quiet rootedness shaped me more than I realized. There’s no rush to be seen. There’s just an honest desire to live well and enjoy the blessings of this life.
And that’s the kind of influence I want to have—not the viral kind, but the enduring kind. The kind that changes atmospheres, not algorithms. That settles into hearts, not headlines.
I want my son to grow up knowing that you don’t have to be “mean” to be strong or firm in what you believe or know to be true. That kindness can be a strategy. That self-control is a gift. That love doesn’t shout—it shows up, and it keeps showing up.
If someone ever tells you you’re “too nice,” “too gentle,” or “not capable of being mean,” I hope you smile. The world needs more genuine kindness.
Because the truth is: when the world shouts, someone has to choose to whisper. And that voice? It carries farther than we think.
Until next time,
Annie
ANNIE BOYD SOWELL 