Today in therapy, I was asked to describe myself in one word.
I said, “fragile.”
The therapist looked at me and asked, “Why fragile?”
And I answered, “Because I’m fragile like dynamite.”
If you don’t know how to handle me, I’ll explode.
That moment stayed with me. It made me pause and think about what that really means. For so long, I associated being fragile with being weak, soft, or too emotional. But that’s not the kind of fragile I am. I’m the kind that holds power in quiet ways. The kind that can shake the ground when pushed too far. The kind that carries both gentleness and destruction inside the same body.
Being fragile doesn’t mean I’m helpless. It means I’m aware of how deeply I feel things. It means I know that when something touches me, it doesn’t just pass through—it stays, it lingers, it changes me. I absorb things: pain, joy, disappointment, hope. And sometimes it all builds up until it needs to release.
I think being fragile like dynamite is both a warning and a truth. It’s not about being unstable; it’s about being human enough to admit that certain things can trigger me, and brave enough to say that I’m still learning how to control the blast.
So yes, I’m fragile. But not because I break easily. I’m fragile because I’m powerful, because I feel everything, because I care too much. And that kind of fragility deserves respect, not pity.