N8tivegirl

Becoming Awakened, Not Hardened

There comes a moment after survival

when the greatest temptation is not fear—

but hardness.

Hardness that forms quietly.

Hardness that feels like wisdom.

Hardness that says, “Never again.”

It is the armor we learn to wear when softness once cost us something.

But awakening is not complete until we decide

that the past will not dictate the posture of our future.

Becoming awakened does not mean forgetting what happened.

It means refusing to let pain become our personality.

It means choosing healing without surrendering tenderness.

Strength without shutting down.

Wisdom without walls.

Hardness protects—but it also isolates.

It keeps danger out,

and it keeps love out too.

Awakening invites a different kind of courage.

The courage to feel again.

The courage to trust discernment over fear.

The courage to open slowly instead of sealing shut forever.

Softness is not naïveté.

Vulnerability is not weakness.

And openness is not the absence of boundaries.

It is the presence of wholeness.

To be awakened and not hardened

is to allow God to heal the places where we learned to brace ourselves.

To let Him tend the tenderness we buried just to survive.

To believe that what hurt us does not get the final say in who we become.

The world may teach you to close your heart to stay safe.

But God teaches you how to guard it without turning it to stone.

You are allowed to be soft and strong.

Wise and warm.

Protected and open.

Becoming awakened is not about becoming unbreakable—

it’s about becoming alive again.

Not hardened by what tried to take you out,

but awakened by the truth that it did not succeed.

An Invitation to the Woman Who Is Still Standing

If you are reading this and you are tired—

not the kind of tired sleep fixes,

but the kind that comes from enduring—

this is for you.

For the woman who survived what should have broken her.

For the one who learned how to function while bleeding.

For the one who kept going because stopping felt more dangerous than continuing.

This is not a demand to be strong.

You’ve already done that.

This is an invitation to rest in the truth

that what looks unfinished to you

is not forgotten by God.

You may not see justice yet.

You may not feel vindicated yet.

You may still be carrying questions that have no answers.

But hear this gently:

“Vengeance is Mine,” says the Lord.

Not because God is cruel—

but because you were never meant to carry the weight of making things right.

What does not look like victory now

will reveal itself as such in time.

God remembers.

He remembers what was done in secret.

He remembers the tears you swallowed.

He remembers the nights you survived quietly.

He remembers the girl you were before fear taught you how to armor yourself.

And He remembers your name.

So if all you can do today is breathe,

that is enough.

If all you can do is choose not to harden,

that is holy work.

You are not weak because you feel.

You are not foolish because you still hope.

You are not behind because healing took longer than expected.

You are awakening.

Not loudly.

Not perfectly.

But honestly.

May you become soft without becoming unsafe.

May you trust again without losing discernment.

May you remember who you were—

and honor who you had to become to survive.

And when the world tells you that nothing has changed,

may you know this truth deep in your bones:

God is not finished.

The story is not over.

And you are still held