Why slowing down and embracing softness could transform your mental health, relationships and sense of wellbeing this summer

From better relationships to improved wellbeing, Kate Townshend explores why choosing softness isn’t a weakness — it’s a strength.

Words: Kate Townshend. Images: Shutterstock.

One of my favourite things about summer is its texture. You can walk out into air that feels like a caress rather than a bite. Everyone is slower and lazier, as pub gardens fill and hazy sunlight pours through windows. Even nature provides a gentler landing, with lush green grass and soft sand providing the textures of the season.

Okay, yes, I realise this is a rather rose-tinted view. I do know, really, that it’s just as likely to be sunburn and crowds and sand in your sandwiches. But this idealised version­ ­­— this dream of the perfect soft-focus summer— persists in my imagination. And on those magical days where real life does match the fantasy, I remember that part of the appeal is the softness of it all.

In a world where everything often feels hard; where we’re constantly expected to push and fight and stay tough, the act of surrendering to the gentleness of just being for a while, allowing ourselves to rest and soften, can feel thrillingly subversive. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that softness has something to teach us beyond those hazy summer days.

Because reflecting on some of the hardest times of my life, embracing softness has often helped me through. When simply getting up in the morning feels tough, a soft blanket and a gently-steeped cup of tea can provide a counterbalance that just about tips things from impossible to possible.

And the trope of melting into a hot bath after a difficult day exists for a reason­­ — letting the rigid structures of daily life dissolve into something softer and more fluid is wonderfully freeing. I wonder if it’s why I often crave the escape of wild swimming when I’m struggling. To be embraced by a river or the sea in the midst of life’s woes is a genuine comfort. And it’s an exercise that involves less pain and more gain for me precisely because of the yielding softness of the water.

Hard to understand?

It’s funny because when life is tricky we are far more likely to be advised to toughen up than soften up. And the idea of being soft ourselves is often treated with a kind of disdain. Taking the ‘soft option’ or ‘going soft’ are explicitly framed as negative outcomes for instance.

‘Softness is so misunderstood,’ says spiritual psychotherapist Melissa Amos, who explains how often it is seen as synonymous with weakness or being a pushover with ‘squishy boundaries’.

‘When we are too hard we shut off part of our capacity for connection. Holding onto what is acceptable, how we should be, deflecting from our most vulnerable thoughts means we can’t fully express ourselves — so we end up not showing up in our full capacity. By softening these barriers we allow for more of our true selves to come through. People understand us better, and in this day and age, people are seeking exactly that real, true connection.’

I find this take on softness encouraging because, if I’m honest, I perfectly fit the criteria for a ‘soft’ person: I cry often and easily. I’ll be in the next room — not just behind the sofa — during violent or scary TV shows. I am easily swayed to sympathy by a sad story or a beautiful sunset.

Popular opinion sees at least some of these things as rather pathetic, and when you’re ‘soft’ like this, it’s easy to feel ill-equipped for life. But I’m slowly learning to appreciate these qualities rather than allowing the world to make me ashamed of them. In particular, Amos’s suggestion that softness often goes hand in hand with connection really resonates with me.

Without softness I would surely have lost my way in the early days of motherhood, when learning to bend rather than break and to revel in the butterfly-wing softness of my physical connection with my baby was nothing short of miraculous. That softness, that give and take, those moments of just ‘being’, listening to my little boy’s gentle breathing were, paradoxically, some of the times in my life I’ve felt the very strongest.

And who can argue with the wisdom of children’s book The Velveteen Rabbit, reminding us that authenticity remains elusive if we prioritise sharp edges over the softness needed to love and be loved. It’s interesting that childhood is one time when we do value softness; when we are keen to metaphorically and literally swaddle them in delicate colours and textures and emotions.

I wonder if this is because it is also a way of making them feel safer in a fundamentally unsafe world. But if we want this for our children, can’t we want it for ourselves, too? ‘Society is set up to be goal-focused, productivity-focused, only-resting-when-we’re-done-focused, and I’ve noticed so many of us are stuck in these hard places,’ says Chloe Markham, a yoga teacher and nervous-system coach who is explicit about the link between softness and feeling safe.

‘When our body feels safe, our breath softens, our muscles release, our voice becomes more melodic. And when we’re regulated in this way, every process in our bodies is supported. ‘So, to me, softness isn’t weakness — it’s regulation. And that kind of presence changes everything: how we relate, how we create, and how we move through the world.’

Believing the daydream

It certainly feels true that part of my yearning towards softness is a yearning for a feeling of greater safety and comfort. But Markham raises the interesting point of what happens after we bring greater softness into our lives — and how this changes our impact on those around us too. Softness is creative, because it isn’t interested in imposing hard boundaries or rigid structures on us.

That cliché of lying on your back on a summer’s day gazing at the clouds and daydreaming? Perhaps it exists because softness makes space for this dreaming to exist. If so, this is good news for those of us who struggle with the ‘toughen up’ advice. I have a complex relationship with my ‘softness’ and sensitivity — but when I think about hardening up I worry about losing some of the crucial things that define me.

Softness can be risky; it exposes us to hurt and ridicule — but it can also be creative and expansive and enriching on its own terms. For me, those things are worth the risk.

Bending, not breaking

So how do we actively welcome softness into our lives? There is a simple physical element to it of course. It’s why I light my candles and drink my tea and cocoon myself in the fluffiest of blankets. It’s also, when possible, about carving out a little time for rest. We don’t constantly have to be productive, or fill all our days with activities.

But perhaps most importantly, softness is about allowing ourselves to be open and vulnerable. These days you’ll find me admitting I need some time out, wearing my tender heart on my sleeve and crying about how beautiful the moon can be out in the open. But don’t mistake this softness for weakness. ‘Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken,’ wrote Albert Camus. I hope that my softness is equally protective.