Little Wren Writes

I used to think surviving hard things would make me tougher.

I’m beginning to hope they make me tender.

Not fragile. Not easily manipulated. Not endlessly accommodating. Not unable to say no.

Tender.

There’s a difference. Because when you’ve been hurt, becoming hard can feel like the safest option. Build thicker walls. Expect less. Need less. Trust less. Care less. Don’t let people close enough to hurt you again. Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t be too vulnerable. Learn the lesson. Protect yourself.

And honestly? I understand the appeal.

There are days when wrapping my heart in several layers of emotional bubble wrap sounds extremely sensible. But I’m not sure I want safety if the price is becoming someone who no longer lets anything matter.

Hardness and strength aren’t the same thing. I’m learning that. Hard things are brittle. Strong things can bend. A tree survives a storm not because it refuses to move, but because it can move without losing its roots.

And perhaps people are a little like that too. I’ve met people who have suffered enormously and somehow become softer.

Not naïve – they know exactly how painful life can be. But instead of that knowledge making them cruel, it has made them compassionate. They notice. They listen. They don’t rush people. They know that sometimes the person who seems difficult is hurting. They know grief doesn’t follow a schedule. They know a person can look perfectly fine and be carrying something incredibly heavy. They know that sometimes the bravest thing someone does all day is turn up.

There is a tenderness that only comes from having needed tenderness yourself.

I want that.

But I also want to be tenacious.

Because tenderness without boundaries isn’t kindness. Sometimes it’s self-abandonment. I’ve confused those things before. Being loving does not mean allowing people unlimited access to me. Being compassionate doesn’t mean excusing harmful behaviour. Forgiveness doesn’t automatically mean restored trust. Understanding why someone behaves a certain way doesn’t mean I have to let them keep hurting me.

I can be tender…and say no.

I can be compassionate…and step away.

I can understand…and still disagree.

I can forgive…and still have a boundary.

I can love someone…and recognise that I cannot rescue them.

Maybe tenderness and tenacity aren’t opposites. Maybe I need both – a soft heart and a strong spine.

I’ve spent a lot of my life thinking strength looked like coping.
Keep going. Push through. Don’t make a fuss. Do what needs doing. Look after everyone else. Find a way.

And there is a kind of strength in perseverance.
Sometimes tenacity really is simply: Get up. Try again.

But I’ve discovered another kind. Sometimes tenacity looks like admitting: This hurt me.

Sometimes it’s saying: I need help.

Sometimes it’s setting a boundary even though you’re terrified someone will be disappointed.

Sometimes it’s choosing not to return to something familiar simply because familiar feels safer than unknown.

Sometimes it’s staying soft when everything in you wants to become cynical.

I think that last one might be one of the hardest.

Because cynicism is seductive. It presents itself as wisdom.

“I know how people are.”
“I won’t make that mistake again.”
“You can’t trust anyone.”
“Don’t expect too much and you won’t be disappointed.”

There is enough truth hidden inside those sentences to make them convincing. People do fail us. Trust should be earned. Patterns matter. Wisdom learns from experience.

But cynicism goes further.

It takes: This person hurt me – and turns it into: People will hurt me.

It takes: That hope was disappointed – and turns it into: Don’t hope again.

It takes: I trusted someone who wasn’t trustworthy – and turns it into: Trust itself was the mistake.

And slowly, protection becomes a prison. Nothing gets in. But nothing gets out either.

I don’t want the worst things that have happened to me to decide the kind of person I become. That’s becoming increasingly important to me.

I want to learn from them. Absolutely. I want better boundaries. More wisdom. Greater discernment. I want to recognise patterns sooner. I want to listen when something doesn’t feel right. I want to know that walking away can sometimes be brave.

But I don’t want pain to turn me into someone who assumes the worst. I don’t want betrayal to make me incapable of trust. I don’t want loss to make me afraid of loving deeply. I don’t want grief to make me stop celebrating. I don’t want disappointment to make me stop hoping. I don’t want suffering to steal my softness.

There are things pain has already taken…I don’t want to hand it anything else.

And then I look at Jesus.

Jesus is one of the most tender people I have ever encountered in Scripture. He notices people everyone else walks past. A woman touches the edge of His cloak in a crowd and He stops. Blind Bartimaeus cries out while everyone tells him to be quiet and Jesus calls him closer. Children are brought to Him and, when His disciples try to send them away, Jesus welcomes them. He touches people others consider unclean. He weeps with grieving sisters. He sees Zacchaeus in a tree. He restores Peter after Peter denies Him. He feeds hungry people. He looks at confused, frightened, sinful human beings and Scripture repeatedly tells us:

He had compassion on them.
Jesus is tender but nobody could call Him weak.

Jesus is also extraordinarily tenacious.

He knows where He is going. He refuses to be manipulated by crowds. He challenges religious hypocrisy. He speaks truth when it costs Him. He walks away when people demand things that aren’t His to do. He sets His face towards Jerusalem knowing what waits there.

And when Peter tries to talk Him out of the path ahead, Jesus doesn’t bend. Jesus’ tenderness never makes Him spineless. His strength never makes Him cruel. He can welcome children and overturn tables. He can weep at Lazarus’ tomb and walk deliberately towards His own death.

He can say: “Come to me, all you who are weary,”
and: “Take up your cross and follow me.”

“Take up your cross and follow me.”

Gentle. Strong. Tender. Tenacious. Perfectly both.

There’s a description of Jesus in Isaiah that I love:

“A bruised reed he will not break, and a smouldering wick he will not snuff out.”

A bruised reed is already damaged. It doesn’t need much more pressure before it snaps. A smouldering wick is barely burning. Just a tiny ember. Easy to extinguish. And Jesus is so gentle with both.

He doesn’t look at the bruised reed and say: “Come on. Toughen up.”

He doesn’t look at the tiny flame and say: “That’s all you’ve got?”

He protects what is fragile. He tends what is barely burning. He doesn’t crush wounded people. And that matters to me because I can be much harsher with myself than Jesus is.

When I’m struggling, my internal voice can become surprisingly demanding. You should be coping better. Why is this still affecting you? Come on. Other people manage. You’ve done harder things than this. Just get on with it.

I would never speak to a hurting friend like that.

And yet somehow I imagine harshness will motivate me into becoming healthier. It rarely does.

Jesus offers something different. Tenderness. Not indulgence. Not pretending nothing needs to change. Tenderness. The kind that tells the truth without crushing. The kind that makes room for weakness without making weakness our identity.

The kind that says:

You’re tired. Come and rest.

You’re hurting. Come closer.

You’ve failed. Let’s restore you.

You’re frightened. I’m here.

And maybe learning to receive the tenderness of Jesus is slowly teaching me how to offer it to myself.

But tenderness also costs something. That’s the part I sometimes forget. If I remain tender, things can still hurt me. If I love people deeply, I can lose them. If I trust, I can be disappointed. If I hope, hope can be deferred. If I let people know me, they may misunderstand me. If I care, I will sometimes ache.

Hardness promises protection from all of that. But hardness also protects me from joy. Connection. Wonder. Intimacy. Delight. Being known. Being loved.

You can’t selectively numb the human heart particularly well. Build walls high enough to keep every painful thing out and eventually you discover you’ve made it difficult for beautiful things to get in too.

So perhaps tenderness requires courage.

And maybe that’s where tenacity comes in.

Tenacity says:
I will keep loving – Not everyone. Not without wisdom. Not without boundaries. But I will keep loving.
I will keep hoping. Even though I’ve been disappointed.
I will keep trusting – Carefully. Wisely. With people who prove trustworthy.

I will keep feeling – even when feelings hurt.

I will keep showing up – even when I’d rather hide.

I will keep turning towards God – even when I don’t understand Him.

Tenacity isn’t pretending the hard things haven’t affected me. It’s refusing to let them have the final say over who I become.

I’ve been thinking about scars.

Scars are interesting because they’re evidence of two things at once. Something hurt, and something healed.

A scar doesn’t pretend the wound never existed. It says ‘something happened here, this mattered, there was damage.’ And the body did what bodies do. It began repairing.

Jesus carries scars too. That’s one of the most extraordinary details of the resurrection to me. His resurrected body still bears the marks. The wounds don’t disappear from the story. They are transformed. And somehow, the risen Jesus with scars feels like exactly the Saviour I need. Not untouched by suffering. Not hardened by it. Victorious through it.

Still Jesus.

Still loving.

Still tender.

I think that’s what I want.

I don’t want to become untouched. That’s impossible anyway.
I don’t want to become invulnerable.
I don’t want a heart that nobody can hurt because nobody can reach it.

I want to become someone who can carry scars without becoming defined by wounds. Someone who knows when to protect herself and when to open the door. Someone who can say no without becoming cold. Someone who can cry without calling herself weak. Someone who can be hurt and still choose kindness. Someone who can recognise danger without seeing danger everywhere. Someone who can survive hard things without needing to become hard.

Tender and tenacious.

I’m not there yet. Sometimes I still build walls when what I really need is a boundary. Sometimes fear tells me never to risk something again. Sometimes I confuse hyper-independence with strength. Sometimes tenderness towards myself feels much harder than tenderness towards everyone else.

But I’m learning. And perhaps the goal isn’t to become tougher. Perhaps it’s to become more like Jesus.

Tender enough to notice. Tender enough to weep. Tender enough to welcome. Tender enough to love.

And tenacious enough to tell the truth. To hold boundaries. To endure. To keep going. To keep hoping. To walk towards what is difficult when faithfulness requires it.

And to flip a table or two.

I don’t want suffering to make me hard. I want it to deepen my compassion. Sharpen my wisdom. Strengthen my boundaries. Root me more deeply in Christ. And somehow, by the grace of God, leave my heart soft.

Because maybe one of the bravest things we can do after being hurt is not simply survive.

It’s remain tender.

“A bruised reed he will not break, and a smouldering wick he will not snuff out.”
Matthew 12:20