Keeping Grace While the Feathers Fly

'Gamecocks' by Katsushika Hokusai

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Lately, the world seems pricklier than usual. Hostility hums in the background—on the news, in the scroll of a social feed, or even a tense moment with a stranger that leaves you feeling enraged and discombobulated all at the same time.

It’s as if frustration and defensiveness have taken up residence in the collective nervous system.

We’re all a bit raw, a bit on edge.

And in this atmosphere, staying soft can feel like an act of rebellion.

So how do we respond when we feel misunderstood, dismissed, or outright attacked? How do we stay grounded—connected to who we are—when everything around us is poking at our soft spots?

I’ve asked myself this a lot lately.

As a therapist, sure, but more often as a human who sometimes wants to shout back, storm off, or—on the worse days—crumple inward and withdraw entirely.

What I’ve come to see is this: we don’t find peace by trying to control the chaos out there.

We can’t change how someone speaks to or about us.

But we can learn to hold our centre.

To hold our ground.

And that means learning the delicate, ongoing dance between grace and boundaries.

Grace often gets mislabelled as weakness, as if being kind is something you only do when you have no fire in your belly. But real grace is fierce. It’s the kind of strength that keeps your voice soft when it could justifiably be sharp.

It’s choosing not to match someone’s aggression just because you can.

Boundaries, meanwhile, are where the grace finds its footing. Without them, we lose ourselves trying to please or pacify everyone else. Boundaries aren’t cold or harsh—they’re protective, not punitive.

They’re what let us say: I’m here, I care… and I also know where I end and you begin.

When we treat grace and boundaries as partners rather than rivals, something beautiful happens. We stop swinging between over-giving and shutting down. We stop performing kindness like a badge of honour and start living it in a way that actually includes ourselves.

There’s a subtle art in knowing when to speak and when to stay still.

Sometimes, the most graceful response is no response at all—not because we’re avoiding conflict, but because we’re refusing to let someone else's reactivity determine our state.

This doesn’t mean becoming detached or numb.

It means developing the kind of inner clarity that allows us to ask, quietly but firmly:

Is this mine to carry?

So much of our energy is spent absorbing things that were never ours to begin with. The irritation of a colleague, the passive-aggressive comment from a family member, the endless low-grade buzzing of other people’s projections.

Grace, when paired with good boundaries, lets us hear the noise without becoming the noise.

Many of us—especially those socialised to be “nice girls”—grew up believing that kindness is a full-time job.

That in order to be good, we must be endlessly giving, patient, accommodating.

And if we’re not?

Cue the guilt.

But here’s what no one told us: kindness that costs you your health or your dignity isn’t kindness at all.

It’s appeasement.

Real kindness, the kind that flows from integrity and wholeness, doesn’t leave you depleted.

It honours both your yes and your no.

There will be moments when setting a boundary feels clunky, when your voice shakes or you second-guess yourself. That’s ok. It’s not about getting it perfect—it’s about getting it honest.

And honesty, even when awkward, is a form of grace.

Especially when it’s directed inward.

Learning to live with grace and boundaries is not about becoming untouchable. It’s about becoming you, more fully and more freely. It's the slow, brave process of stepping out of people-pleasing patterns, of learning when to walk away rather than shrink, and of trusting that your self-worth doesn’t have to be proven by the words and actions of others.

Sometimes that means saying “I need some space” instead of pushing through.

Sometimes it means letting someone be disappointed in you.

Sometimes it’s just breathing, quietly, when everything in you wants to react.

The world is noisy.

You don’t have to be.

There’s a little mantra I come back to when everything feels blurry, when I’m tempted to contort myself into something more palatable or polished:

Never take criticism from someone you wouldn’t take advice from.

Let that be your compass.

You don’t owe every opinion a seat at your table.

You don’t have to accept every invitation to emotional chaos.

You don’t need to prove your grace to anyone.

You’re allowed to be kind and clear.

Soft and strong.

Loving and boundaried.

In fact, you probaly already are.