What Does a Soft Life Mean to You?

I’ve been thinking a lot about the phrase soft life lately.

We hear it everywhere. Beautiful homes, slow mornings, someone else paying the bills, flowers at the door, vacations, being taken care of.

And there’s nothing wrong with any of those things.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize that a soft life is personal. What feels soft to me might feel completely overwhelming to you. What makes you feel cared for might make me feel smothered.

So before we expect someone else to create a soft life for us, maybe we have to figure out what that actually means to us first.

When I moved to Texas, that became really clear.

My idea of a soft life wasn’t necessarily being close to everyone or having everything conveniently provided. I wanted space. I wanted to see cows. 😂 I wanted nature, a garden, a workspace, room for my business and my hobbies. I wanted to homeschool my daughter without feeling like we were constantly rushing through the day.

That is my soft life.

Someone else in my family chose a community where things were more convenient and provided. Amenities, structure, community. That was their version.

Neither one is wrong.

They’re just different.

And I think that’s where we get into trouble sometimes. We assume that because something feels good to us, it must feel good to the person we love.

But you can’t create someone else’s soft life without knowing what makes them feel soft.

Sometimes softness still looks like responsibility.

My life isn’t exactly responsibility-free. I have a child, a parent who needs care, a business, school, appointments, meals and all the other little things that come with life.

But my life can still feel soft.

I like having an hour or two in the morning before everyone needs something from me. I like being able to sit and think, stare at the wall, drink my coffee and get my head together.

I try to give my daughter that same space. She can wake up, splash water on her face, eat something, collect herself and get ready for school without immediately being thrown into the day.

And when I’m caring for someone, I don’t want to automatically do everything for them.

If they can do something themselves, I want them to.

Because sometimes what we call “help” is actually taking away someone’s independence.

Sometimes support is simply making sure someone has the time, space and tools to do something their own way.

I learned that during a move once.

I was moving out of a home and, for a lot of reasons, I needed to do it myself. I didn’t need someone rushing me or deciding what needed to happen on their timeline.

I needed space.

I had access to a truck, so I could move things when I was ready. I could sort through everything at my own pace. And when I actually needed help, I asked for it.

And the help was there.

That felt supportive.

Nobody had to take the whole thing over for me

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Sometimes softness is being considered, too.

I’ve also had to think about what happens when we are the ones constantly adjusting.

My family used to have a Thanksgiving gathering every year. One year, plans were made without me knowing.

I didn’t know about the plans, so I reached out to the group because I was trying to figure out what everyone was doing. I also asked if there was any possibility of changing the location because my mom, my sister and her guardian were going to be in town, and I wanted the opportunity for everyone to see each other.

No one responded in the group.

Eventually, I received a phone call explaining that the plans had already been made and I hadn’t been included in them, but that I was welcome to come if I wanted to.

That hurt.

I didn’t make a big thing out of it.

I just adjusted.

I said we could keep everything as planned. Since I was coming into plans that had already been made, my mom wouldn’t be able to come, so we’d stay for a little while and then head home.

I had already communicated that I wouldn’t be able to stay the entire time because I had responsibilities at home. I also asked if there was anything I could bring.

I was told no.

So I followed the plan.

And afterward, I was called selfish because I didn’t stay for all of the games, left early and didn’t cook.

That experience stayed with me—not because I think everyone was intentionally trying to hurt me, but because it made me realize how easily we can adjust ourselves for everyone else’s comfort and then still be perceived as not doing enough.

I had already made adjustments.

I had already communicated my capacity.

I had already asked how I could contribute.

And I showed up.

Sometimes we can be so accustomed to accommodating everyone else that we forget that our own limitations are allowed to exist, too.

I don’t have unlimited time.

I don’t have unlimited energy.

And having responsibilities that matter to me doesn’t mean I care about my family any less.

Maybe part of a soft life is accepting that I don’t have to constantly stretch myself to prove that I love people.

Sometimes being seen is the gift

I’ve experienced this in relationships, too.

There was a time someone brought me a little Halloween gift bag with some of my favorite snacks and a stuffed animal.

It wasn’t a ring.

It wasn’t some huge romantic gesture.

But I remember it.

Because I felt seen.

Someone had paid attention to what I liked.

My dad was like that too.

He wasn’t necessarily the person making every moment into a production. He was often somewhere in the background.

But he showed up.

When I worked at a nursing home, he’d call or text and ask if I’d had my coffee. And because we both loved coffee, he’d sometimes just show up with one.

He knew exactly how I liked it.

Sometimes he’d bring lunch. Sometimes a pastry.

Nothing huge.

He just paid attention.

And looking back, I realize how much that meant. It wasn’t about the coffee.

It was the message underneath it:

I thought about you.

Showing up isn’t always about the big moments.

I’ve thought about this a lot when it comes to parent-child relationships.

You can show up for the big events. You can take the pictures. You can be there for the celebrations.

And your child can still feel like you weren’t there.

Both things can be true.

Sometimes when someone tells us, “You weren’t there for me,” our first instinct is to defend ourselves.

But I was there.

I came to the event.

I did this.

I did that.

But maybe the question isn’t simply whether we showed up.

Maybe it’s whether we showed up in the way that person needed.

Did we listen when there wasn’t a celebration?

Did we make space when they just needed to talk?

Did we know what was happening in their everyday life?

Did we allow their accomplishments to belong to them?

My dad never seemed afraid of my shine. He didn’t need my accomplishments to make him look good.

He just showed up.

And maybe that’s why his presence felt so different.

Care feels different when it isn’t transactional.

This is another part I’ve had to sit with.

I’ve experienced beautiful acts of thoughtfulness from people I loved.

I’ve also experienced what it feels like when kindness seems to come with an expectation attached to it.

And those are two very different feelings.

I’m someone who tends to care for people through everyday things.

If I know how you like your food, I remember.

If I know you like to decompress after a long day, I’ll make sure you have what you need.

If I see your favorite snack at the store, I’m probably bringing it home.

That’s how I say, I thought about you.

So when that same kind of thoughtfulness isn’t coming back simply because someone wanted to make my day easier, it can hurt.

Not because I need everything to be perfectly equal.

But because there’s something different about receiving something when there isn’t a hidden expectation attached to it.

Care feels different when it’s given simply because you matter.

And then I started seeing the same thing in my work.

I’ve had to learn this in my business, too.

Sometimes we can become so attached to our own vision that we forget the person we’re actually creating for.

I’ve had to pull myself out of my business a little so my clients can see themselves in it.

That doesn’t mean my voice doesn’t matter.

It just means everything doesn’t have to be about me.

I think that’s true in relationships, too.

You can have the best intentions and still miss the person in front of you if you’re too focused on what you think they should want.

A photographer can have incredible talent, but when someone hires them, that person probably wants to see themselves.

Their family.

Their accomplishment.

Their moment.

Their story.

The artist’s work can still be incredible without the artist needing to be the center of every image.

Sometimes your skill speaks for itself.

And honestly, I think that’s a lesson that keeps showing up in different areas of my life.

Maybe a soft life starts with listening.

The older I get, the less I think a soft life means being rescued from responsibility.

I think it has more to do with being understood.

Having room to breathe.

Having autonomy.

Having someone notice the little things.

Being supported without feeling controlled.

Being able to ask for help without losing your independence.

Having people around you who understand that your version of peace might look completely different from theirs.

And maybe that’s the part we don’t talk about enough.

We spend so much time asking people to give us what we need that we don’t always stop to figure out what we actually need.

And sometimes we spend so much time trying to give people what we think they need that we forget to listen when they tell us otherwise.

Maybe they don’t need a grand gesture.

Maybe they need coffee.

Maybe they don’t need you to do it for them.

Maybe they need the space and the tools to do it themselves.

Maybe they don’t need another picture of the moment.

Maybe they need you to listen after the picture is taken.

Maybe they don’t need more.

Maybe they just need to know you noticed.

And maybe I don’t need to keep shrinking myself to make everyone else comfortable, either.

Maybe saying, “This is what I can give,” isn’t selfish.

Maybe having limits isn’t a failure to love people.

Maybe making room for myself is part of the soft life, too.

That’s what a soft life has started to mean to me.

Not a life where nothing is hard.

Not a life where someone else carries everything.

Not a life that looks good from the outside.

Just a life that feels like me.

And maybe the first step toward creating that life isn’t finding someone else to provide it.

Maybe it’s getting quiet enough to figure out what softness actually means to you.

And then being willing to listen when someone else tells you what it means to them.