What I Mean to Say

“What I Mean to Say”

I tell you to stand up straight.
To speak clearly.
To meet the eyes that try to shrink you.

I tell you not to flinch.
Not to fold.
Not to give them more than they’ve earned.

And you listen—
like you always do,
like love is a language you’re still learning how to speak out loud.

But then,
you cry when the bird hits the window.
You hold your brother’s hand too long when he’s afraid.
You ask why the world can be so loud,
and I don’t know how to answer
without turning the volume down in my own chest.

Because what I meant to say
wasn’t don’t feel,
wasn’t toughen up,
wasn’t the world will eat you if you let it.

What I meant was—
there will be moments
where your heart feels like a bruise
and the world will ask you to pretend it’s armor.

What I meant was—
keep the softness.
Let the bruise stay tender.

But also—
build a frame strong enough
to carry what it means to care.

I want you to be kind,
and I want that kindness to survive
in a world that sometimes doesn’t deserve it.

I want you to feel everything,
but I don’t want it to break you.

I want you to be the one who steps in,
but also the one who knows when to walk away.

I want you to be good—
and know that being good
doesn’t mean being silent.

I want you to be gentle—
and still know how to hold your own name
like something worth protecting.

I want you to be free.
Even from me.
Even from the shape of what I thought a man should be.

And if I fumble the words,
if I get the tone wrong,
if I ever make you feel like strength
is louder than softness—

know this:
The hardest thing I’ve ever tried to be
is the kind of man
who teaches his son
he doesn’t have to choose.