Sixty Years of Hardness, and Now This: On Finding Softness Late in Life

I spent most of my life being what the situation required. That's what you do as a military wife. That's what you do as an LPN. That's what you do as the person everyone calls when something needs doing and they don't know who else to ask. Karl used to say I could run a field hospital with a roll of tape and a calm voice. He was not wrong. But here is what nobody tells you about being the capable one: you forget how to be anything else. You forget that softness is even an option.

I was forty-two years in nursing. Nights, weekends, holidays. I held the hands of people who were dying and I held the hands of their families and I held myself together until my shift was over and then I fell apart in the parking lot. That was the routine. Show up, be strong, break down later. It worked. It worked for decades. And then Karl died, and the routine stopped working, and I had to learn something entirely new.

Strength Is Not the Same as Survival

There is a difference between being strong and being armored. I did not know that for a very long time. I thought they were the same thing. I thought if I let anything soft in, if I admitted I was tired or sad or scared, the whole structure would collapse. So I kept the armor on. Even with Karl, sometimes. Even with my own children. Especially with myself.

Grief does something to armor. It doesn't ask permission. It doesn't wait until you're ready. It finds the cracks, the ones you didn't know were there, and it pours through them. After Karl died, I couldn't keep the armor on. I didn't have the energy. I was crying in grocery stores. I was crying in the car. I was crying while folding laundry because his socks were still in the basket and I couldn't bring myself to put them away. The capable one was gone. All that was left was a woman who missed her husband so much it felt like a physical weight on her chest.

The Stuffed Animals Arrived Without Permission

I did not plan to become a woman who collects stuffed animals at sixty-eight. It wasn't on the list. The list was things like "organize the basement" and "update the will" and "figure out what to do with Karl's clothes." Nowhere on the list was "buy a small bear because it reminded you of something you can't name and put it next to your husband's photograph."

But that's what happened. I was at the drugstore, picking up a prescription, and there was a bin of little stuffed animals near the checkout. A small bear with a red bow. I don't know why I picked it up. I just did. And holding it made me feel, for a moment, slightly less alone. So I bought it. I put it next to Karl's picture on the counter. And then I bought another one. A bunny with long ears for spring. A duck in a yellow raincoat for summer. A fox with a little scarf for fall. A tiny reindeer for Christmas. Every season, Karl's picture gets a new companion. It's the strangest ritual I've ever had. It's also one of the most comforting.

My children think it's sweet. My grandchildren have started trading plushies with me. I am "Mimi" to them, the grandmother with the rotating seasonal menagerie. My great-granddaughter, who is five and already has strong opinions about everything, recently taught me about clip-on plushies. Little animals that hook onto your purse or your backpack. I have a clip-on octopus now. It's purple. It makes me smile every time I look at it.

Softness Is Not Weakness

I used to think softness was what happened when you stopped trying. When you gave up. When you let yourself go. I was wrong. Softness is what happens when you stop fighting yourself. When you let the armor come off and discover that the person underneath is still there. Still breathing. Still capable of joy.

I am still sad about Karl. I will always be sad about Karl. But I am also happy about the clip-on octopus. I am happy about trading plushies with my great-granddaughter. I am happy about the ritual of changing the animals with the seasons, of giving his memory something soft to hold onto. The sadness and the happiness don't cancel each other out. They live side by side, like two old friends who don't always agree but have learned to share the same house.

If you are in your sixties or seventies or eighties and you're just now discovering softness, it's not too late. It was never too late. You were just busy. Busy being strong. Busy being what everyone needed. Busy surviving. But survival is not the same as living. And living, real living, has room for stuffed animals. Room for silly rituals. Room for the kind of joy that doesn't apologize.

I spent sixty years being hard. I have earned the right to be soft. And so have you. Go buy yourself a little bear. Clip an octopus to your purse. Do something that would have embarrassed you twenty years ago. The embarrassment fades. The softness stays. And honestly, honey, it's the least sad thing I've ever done.

— Lydia

About the Author

Lydia is a retired LPN and military wife who became a widow at 66. She lives in California, where she maintains a rotating seasonal collection of stuffed animals around her husband Karl's photograph. Her great-granddaughter recently taught her about clip-on plushies, and she hasn't looked back.