The Strength of Gentleness

Gentleness was the last word I wanted for 2022, and yet it was the one I needed most.

We learned we were pregnant in February 2021—a joyful surprise. Navigating the pregnancy, society’s continued chaos and division over COVID-19, and a difficult move from California to Ohio made 2021 one of the hardest years of my life. By the time we welcomed our fourth daughter and the final days of 2021 slipped away, I felt only relief to see it end.

My body still carried the slow work of recovery, both from the move and the pregnancy. Like many, I spent December reflecting on the year and, more eagerly, casting vision for the new one. For several years, I’ve prayerfully chosen a “word for the new year.” Each time its impact surprised me, and the practice has become a cherished tradition.

Even so, I felt tucked into my life, not fully uncomfortably. I loved every moment with my infant daughter and remember wanting always to touch her, snuggle her, hold her close. With older children already in the house and the awareness that she was my last baby, I clung differently to the newborn stage. I loved teaching my older girls, even as I stumbled through homeschooling with a newborn in tow. And though the move had been grueling, I began to notice what I loved here, too, including the vibrant green after four years in the near-desert.

Yet breastfeeding and homeschooling left little room for autonomy or personal dreaming. And after moving into a new home, every corner reminded me of projects I couldn’t reach. My arms were full.

So, when I reached out for my new word, the word that would carry vision and meaning through my entire 2022, my soul wanted action. I scanned through lists of words. I glanced at the untouched moving boxes and wondered… maybe my word would be “productivity.” Oh, my silly heart, no. Wanting to feel more energy and connection in my life, my eyes lingered on “thrive.” Who wouldn’t want that word?   What about “focus”? Too boring.

I looked longingly out my window, and my heart yearned for my word to be “adventure.” I wanted exciting purpose and bravery and more-than-motherhood. I wanted to step into something others would be jealous of. (Sorry, but that’s honest.) But my eyes kept being drawn back to another word. A word that made my nose scrunch up.

Gentleness.

In the prior weeks, I had found myself astounded by my husband’s gentleness. He has always been kind, but I distinctly remember labeling his care as “gentle.” I cannot remember what actions he took. I wish I had written it down. But I remember being awestruck when he met me with gentleness.

It made me feel more than loved and seen.

It made me feel safe.  

It made my anxiety quiet.

I felt… precious? Something worthy of tenderness.

As I held the word list and pondered, my traitorous eyes kept swinging back to the word gentleness… I knew something deep within me craved it.

I had grown up reciting the fruit of the Spirit—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. But I had never really noticed gentleness. I always lumped it in with kindness and goodness, as if they were all the same soft quality.

They aren’t.

Kindness is outward-facing answering the question, “What can I do for you?”

Gentleness is inward-facing answering the question, “How will I treat you while I do it?”

Kindness may offer help, comfort, or generosity. Gentleness is restraint, humility, tenderness—what Scripture sometimes calls meekness, or strength under control.

I went on the quest to understand gentleness. And what I discovered and experienced that year changed me. I hope forever.

Practicing Gentleness

Gentleness begins as an intentional heart posture, a decision to approach my days differently. For better or worse, I am a doer. I like to DO THINGS and get the things DONE. My natural bent is to make impractically long to-do lists, and to chase the high of accomplishing.  Practicing gentleness meant resisting that impulse and choosing a slower, softer way.

When life feels too full, it’s tempting to think the answer is more discipline, more rigidity, more structure to squeeze everything in. That was certainly my instinct. But in that season, the answer was to simplify. To choose less—much less – and let go of perfection, uncurling the clenched hands of control. To focus on a few good things (letting go of the imaginary best). And to do them gently.

This showed up in small ways. Pausing before answering a question, lowering my voice when I felt like raising it (an incredible method of de-escalation), or reminding myself to listen before jumping in with advice. Other times it was bigger: releasing my tight grip on the pace of our home, deciding presence mattered more than productivity, and letting my children see my tenderness instead of my tension.

Practicing gentleness changed the lens I looked through. Instead of asking, “How can I get this done?” I began asking, “How can I do this with gentleness?” That shift realigned the atmosphere of my home, my relationships, and even my own inner life.

The Strength of Gentleness

Logically, I knew babies don’t keep. My productivity-driven mindset was at odds with being present for a little baby who was changing so fast. The infant stage can feel overwhelming. Layer on the demands of three older children and the confinement of nap schedules, and it can unravel you. If I kept charging forward the way I normally do, I’d burn out. And worse, I’d miss moments I could never get back. The kinds of moments you only notice when you lay down the impractical goals and choose presence instead.

There is nothing weak about gentleness. It took strength to lay projects and dreams down. At first, I wondered if leaning into gentleness would drain me. After all, isn’t it exhausting to hold back, to bite your tongue, to stay soft in a hard world? But the opposite happened. Gentleness didn’t deplete me—it strengthened me.

Shame thrives on harshness. It hisses that you should be further along, moving faster, doing better. For years my long to-do list set me up for failure. Who cares you got that done? Look at how much there is to do! Gentleness interrupts this noise. It validates that what you are choosing to do right now is enough.  

I experienced a new kind of strength—the kind that holds steady and makes room for people. Gentleness became, in its own way, a shield. A shield against striving. A shield against shame. A shield against the voice that says I am only as valuable as what I get done.

The Fruit of Gentleness

 Gentleness gave me permission to be present. It gave me strength to lay down comparison and opened the door to contentment and joy. I once heard someone say you can always know if you are truly present by asking: Are you aware of your breath? Gentleness helped me pause long enough to notice mine, to soak into a moment rather than resent its slowness.

Over that year my self-talk improved. Shame showed up significantly less. I felt powerful, choosing less and agreeing that what I was doing was enough. Restlessness still crept in – I’d wonder when I would be able to run at faster speed again. But gentleness gave me capacity to accept my season and space to celebrate the good I might have otherwise missed.

Relationships shifted too. Gentleness softened my tone, widened my patience, and created safety for others to be themselves. I’ve come to believe that when my patience runs low, what I truly need is not more willpower but more compassion and gentleness. Patience is a fruit of presence, not of striving. Gentleness quieted conflict before it grew loud and made space for connection to flourish.

No area of my life that was touched by gentleness was not improved, matured, strengthened.

You deserve gentleness. Start with choosing gentleness for yourself. Let these questions guide you as you imagine how gentleness could shape your life.

·         Where do you feel pressure to move faster, do more, or prove yourself?

·         What would it look like to treat yourself with the same compassion you give to others?

·         How might gentleness change the way you speak to yourself at the end of a long day?

·         In what spaces of your life - work, family, friendships - would gentleness quiet conflict and open the door to connection?

·         What would happen if you believed that what you are doing right now is enough?

Perhaps the bravest thing you can do right now is to choose gentleness. I encourage you to try!