Softness is for When Things are Hard. Really, Really Hard.

Last night my mom asked me how I know her.
She pointed toward my 8 year-old daughter and said, her.

I explained calmly, just like all the books say to do, that she is my daughter, and I am your daughter, Mom.

She paused and said,
“Well, that’s the first I’m hearing of it.”

Softness is for when things are hard. Really, really hard.

My mom has had many moments over the years when things weren’t okay. Many of the biggest ones were intensified by the long stress of caring for my dad while he lived with Parkinson’s. Now that he’s gone, I’ve been in charge of my mom in all the ways one becomes in charge of a parent who needs help but isn’t aware that they need help.

She still lives alone. I visit every day. I cook for her, bring groceries, take her on walks, to the gym, for family playtime, and to visit with us. We moved to the same town to help.

Where I take her has narrowed.

There was an incident at the gym. She told me she wanted to walk the track alone while my daughter and I played pickleball. Five minutes later, the front desk helper came up to me with a look I recognized immediately. She asked if I was there with an older woman. My mom had told her that I went out to get groceries and that she was going to go with me, then headed for the door.

I took her to my daughter’s gymnastics class once. She had a strong reaction to the girls not wearing shoes. She kept saying the moves were too hard for their feet and that she didn’t like the people running the place.

At Christmas, I brought her to my aunt’s. My uncle, her brother, is wonderful with her. He’ll sit and talk with her for hours. If you overhear their conversations, they can sound funny. She says things that aren’t true. She doesn’t know who people are. That’s normal for me now. It’s harder when people on the outside feel uncomfortable. I understand it. I probably would too if I weren’t with her every day.

It’s the shock of it all that’s shocking.

So last night, I was shocked when she asked how I know my daughter.

After I did what I was “supposed to do,” she doubled down. She asked how old I was when she met Steve, my dad, and explained that she traveled a lot because he was in the Navy (true), and that’s why she doesn’t know everyone, because she hasn’t spent much time with them (not true).

We brought her to our house to ride out the snowstorm. A good decision, and one with its own challenges.

Dementia can turn people into vampires when the sun goes down. It’s almost clockwork. When the sun is up, her mood is up. Even if she isn’t fully “with it,” she’s lighter. When the sun starts to fade, things get dicey.

The moment the sun disappeared last night was the moment she asked who we were.

Right on cue.

For me, yes, it’s hard.

I have my softness practice. I have an incredible community. I have the privilege of writing and teaching about softness and witnessing what it does: people healing from long-standing health challenges, improving markers of longevity, finding safer and more meaningful ways to spend their time, often without chasing trends or forcing themselves into rigid systems.

Softness offers infinite benefits, but not in the way a pill does. It doesn’t promise like taking a Tylenol will take away your headache. It’s bigger than that. More expansive. It works alongside medicine and science, it doesn’t replace them. Softness is the most powerful partner to what helps us, and the clearest filter for what we don’t need.

What I’m most grateful for isn’t just physical health or energy, though I’m thankful for the ability to care for myself, travel, lead, and practice yoga and tai chi every day with our Strala community.

I’m most grateful for the perspective.

When something hits as hard as my mom not knowing who I am, I feel the pain, and I still have space left to notice my daughter right there, experiencing this too. That pain opens me to deeper empathy for friends and community moving through their own challenges. Our pain isn’t what makes us special. Our uniqueness lives in our capacity to notice how we feel, and to respond to ourselves and each other with care.

When people respond to challenge with the cliché “love is the answer,” they aren’t wrong. But the path to love begins with softness. Softness offers support through the breath, brings us into contact with how we feel, and widens our experience of our natural self. From there, love becomes possible, for ourselves, our neighbors, and the world we’re doing our best to care for. This is real. But we can’t get there through rigidity.

We talk about it. We cuddle. We joke. There’s a game I let her play where she asks Grandma how old she is, and always adds a few extra years. Grandma believes her every time. I let it slide. It’s harmless. And it brings joy.

I’m grateful for the support of my breath. Softness dissolves rigidity. Each inhale supports me. Each exhale releases and renews me. A spa day would be nice, but I have one with every breath.

I’m grateful for the reminder that I’m not the center of the universe. That I’m best when I take care of myself so I can understand others. That softness taught me we are a forest, connected underground, distinct yet interdependent, supporting one another in ways we don’t always see.

When we forget this, we become rigid. Isolated. We go to war with ourselves and with others.

I’m grateful that softness doesn’t just teach peace, it teaches strength.

And shows me just how powerful I can be when I’m soft.

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