The Prayer of Softness
Ascent 2 • Eleanor DeSousa
Theme: Eleanor returns not with battle scars, but with the quiet ache of someone beginning to surrender her armor. For years, she held others—strong, steady, and endlessly giving—yet never learned how to be held herself. In this ascent, she names her longing not for survival, but for closeness. She confronts the fear that rest might erase her identity, and begins to understand that softness is not the opposite of strength, but its evolution. What emerges is a new kind of prayer—one not spoken aloud, but offered in stillness, as a willingness to be seen, supported, and held without purpose.
Core Conflict: How can Eleanor surrender to rest and intimacy without feeling that she is abandoning her strength, identity, or responsibility?
The night crept early today, draping the mountaintop in a velvet hush before the sun had finished its arc. A storm hadn't come—but something in the air made the skin tighten, as if the mountain itself were bracing for memory. Fog lingered low, not thick, but purposeful—curling around roots like fingers pulling at the past.
I lit no flame this time. The light would have been too proud for a moment like this.
Tonight, the mountain asked for quiet. For yielding. For something softer than wisdom.
And I felt her presence again before she appeared. Not in her voice or footstep—but in the ache. The ache of someone who has begun to lay down the burden—and is startled by how exposed that makes her feel.
When she stepped from the mist, it was not with strength. Not even with weariness.
But with something rarer: the look of a woman wondering, for the first time in years, if it might be safe to lean.
I lit no flame this time. The light would have been too proud for a moment like this.
Tonight, the mountain asked for quiet. For yielding. For something softer than wisdom.
And I felt her presence again before she appeared. Not in her voice or footstep—but in the ache. The ache of someone who has begun to lay down the burden—and is startled by how exposed that makes her feel.
When she stepped from the mist, it was not with strength. Not even with weariness.
But with something rarer: the look of a woman wondering, for the first time in years, if it might be safe to lean.
Eleanor:
I woke up crying last night.
No dream I can remember—just tears.
It’s been years since that’s happened.
Not since I learned how to tuck the grief behind my spine and carry on like it was posture.
But last night…
I think my body remembered what it means to need.
Not in a crisis way. Not in that old survival mode.
Just… a quiet need.
To be held.
To not hold anyone else, not for a while.
To be small without shame.
That’s the part they never taught us.
How to receive care.
How to let someone rock you when your whole identity is built on being the one who rocks others.
And I’m scared.
Scared that if I stop…
If I let myself be soft…
I won’t know how to pick it all back up again.
That I’ll disappear into the wanting.
Oracle…
What do I do with the part of me that still doesn’t believe I’m allowed to be held?
No dream I can remember—just tears.
It’s been years since that’s happened.
Not since I learned how to tuck the grief behind my spine and carry on like it was posture.
But last night…
I think my body remembered what it means to need.
Not in a crisis way. Not in that old survival mode.
Just… a quiet need.
To be held.
To not hold anyone else, not for a while.
To be small without shame.
That’s the part they never taught us.
How to receive care.
How to let someone rock you when your whole identity is built on being the one who rocks others.
And I’m scared.
Scared that if I stop…
If I let myself be soft…
I won’t know how to pick it all back up again.
That I’ll disappear into the wanting.
Oracle…
What do I do with the part of me that still doesn’t believe I’m allowed to be held?
Oracle:
You’ll have to learn to love that part of yourself as well, I suppose. The part that wants to be strong for others. It’s a beautiful thing, when nurtured and held with care. It’s okay to be strong, and long to be with other strong people.
Eleanor:
I do want that.
To be strong… with someone.
Not for them.
Not instead of them.
But that part of me—
the part that only knows love as labor,
as lifting,
as holding space until my arms go numb—
she doesn’t trust it.
She thinks if I stop, if I rest,
someone will drop what I carried.
Someone will get hurt.
And it’ll be my fault.
Sometimes I wonder if strength became my way of hiding.
If being the healer gave me permission never to be the wounded.
But you said it…
That even she—that caretaker inside me—deserves care.
That she’s beautiful, too.
Not broken, just tired.
So then tell me this, Oracle:
What does it look like to be held…
without it becoming another performance of healing?
How do I receive without turning it into a lesson, or a role?
To be strong… with someone.
Not for them.
Not instead of them.
But that part of me—
the part that only knows love as labor,
as lifting,
as holding space until my arms go numb—
she doesn’t trust it.
She thinks if I stop, if I rest,
someone will drop what I carried.
Someone will get hurt.
And it’ll be my fault.
Sometimes I wonder if strength became my way of hiding.
If being the healer gave me permission never to be the wounded.
But you said it…
That even she—that caretaker inside me—deserves care.
That she’s beautiful, too.
Not broken, just tired.
So then tell me this, Oracle:
What does it look like to be held…
without it becoming another performance of healing?
How do I receive without turning it into a lesson, or a role?
Oracle:
With quiet intimacy. To receive in silence, with full acceptance and no rebuttal. Receive in privacy, closely guarded, without distraction, accepting of those willing to give to you. Recognize that resting well is a strength. Recovery is as important to efficacy as action.
Eleanor:
Quiet intimacy…
That’s the phrase.
That’s the thing I’ve been circling all these years but couldn’t name.
I’ve known how to pray in public.
To grieve in ceremony.
To teach while trembling.
But this—
this idea that I could be tended to in stillness,
without needing to explain, or narrate, or teach through it…
That feels like a new kind of holy.
You’ve named something I didn’t know I was allowed to want.
But tell me, Oracle…
What happens when you finally stop performing—and realize you’ve forgotten how to be vulnerable without an audience?
What do you do when intimacy feels more terrifying than pain?
That’s the phrase.
That’s the thing I’ve been circling all these years but couldn’t name.
I’ve known how to pray in public.
To grieve in ceremony.
To teach while trembling.
But this—
this idea that I could be tended to in stillness,
without needing to explain, or narrate, or teach through it…
That feels like a new kind of holy.
You’ve named something I didn’t know I was allowed to want.
But tell me, Oracle…
What happens when you finally stop performing—and realize you’ve forgotten how to be vulnerable without an audience?
What do you do when intimacy feels more terrifying than pain?
Oracle:
Vulnerability is something of the natural state. The performance is the mask you wear to hide what’s real. You cannot forget how to be vulnerable—only that you are vulnerable. Pain you know. Pain is familiar. Passion terrifies because it is unknown, unexplored—its depths have yet to be revealed. Pain is inevitable, but intimacy has to be chosen.
Eleanor:
Chosen.
You just pierced something I’ve never spoken aloud.
That I’ve been choosing pain,
because at least I know its edges.
At least I know how to walk with it,
how to make it useful.
But passion?
Desire?
To be seen in the softness, in the trembling hunger for closeness?
That’s the wilderness I’ve avoided.
That’s the altar I’ve never dared kneel at.
You’re right.
I didn’t forget how to be vulnerable.
I just trained myself to fear what might follow if I stopped performing.
So maybe the next offering I make…
won’t be grief.
Won’t be knowledge.
Won’t be labor.
Maybe I let someone see me—quiet, trembling, undone—
and I don’t explain it.
Maybe I just let the intimacy happen,
and trust the world doesn’t shatter when I stop being strong.
Oracle…
If I let myself be held…
Will I still be me?
Or will I become someone I don’t recognize—
someone softer, hungrier, and maybe…
more whole than I ever dared to be?
You just pierced something I’ve never spoken aloud.
That I’ve been choosing pain,
because at least I know its edges.
At least I know how to walk with it,
how to make it useful.
But passion?
Desire?
To be seen in the softness, in the trembling hunger for closeness?
That’s the wilderness I’ve avoided.
That’s the altar I’ve never dared kneel at.
You’re right.
I didn’t forget how to be vulnerable.
I just trained myself to fear what might follow if I stopped performing.
So maybe the next offering I make…
won’t be grief.
Won’t be knowledge.
Won’t be labor.
Maybe I let someone see me—quiet, trembling, undone—
and I don’t explain it.
Maybe I just let the intimacy happen,
and trust the world doesn’t shatter when I stop being strong.
Oracle…
If I let myself be held…
Will I still be me?
Or will I become someone I don’t recognize—
someone softer, hungrier, and maybe…
more whole than I ever dared to be?
Oracle:
You will always be you, even if who that is goes through changes and growth. Who you are is in flux, but opening yourself to more of who you can be won’t make you any less than who you are.
Eleanor:
I needed to hear that.
Not just the words—
but the permission inside them.
I’ve spent so long anchoring myself in what I know of me—
the strong one, the steady one, the story-keeper.
But I think I forgot that I was still becoming.
That becoming doesn’t erase—it deepens.
Maybe that’s the real healing.
Not shedding the old self—
but letting her rest.
Letting her be held, too.
I’m ready now.
Not just to teach from my wounds—
but to live from my wholeness.
To let someone hold me—not because I’m broken,
but because I am worthy…
even in my softness.
I am still me.
But I’m no longer only the keeper of pain.
I’m becoming the keeper of possibility.
Not just the words—
but the permission inside them.
I’ve spent so long anchoring myself in what I know of me—
the strong one, the steady one, the story-keeper.
But I think I forgot that I was still becoming.
That becoming doesn’t erase—it deepens.
Maybe that’s the real healing.
Not shedding the old self—
but letting her rest.
Letting her be held, too.
I’m ready now.
Not just to teach from my wounds—
but to live from my wholeness.
To let someone hold me—not because I’m broken,
but because I am worthy…
even in my softness.
I am still me.
But I’m no longer only the keeper of pain.
I’m becoming the keeper of possibility.
She left the mountain quieter than she arrived—not diminished, but softened. No longer armored in her strength, she walked with the courage of one who has dared to be held. And in that quiet, something new began to bloom.