"You know, all I wanted was to peacefully enter my soft girl era. You know the vibe—floaty dresses, pastel nails, gentle giggles, and the kind of calm that makes people think I meditate with flower petals and talk to butterflies in my spare time. I wanted to be the embodiment of self-care, journaling my feelings in gold ink, sipping herbal tea, and radiating enough gentle energy to inspire an entire Pinterest board dedicated to “Soft Girl Aesthetics.”

But apparently, that’s just too much to ask. Because it seems the universe and its supporting cast of chaos goblins have made it their personal mission to summon forth the Annabelle in me. Yes, Annabelle—the doll you don’t want to meet in a dark hallway. The one who doesn’t say boo; she just stares, waits, and then unleashes hell when you least expect it. And let me tell you, nothing wakes up your inner demon faster than people who confuse “soft” with “doormat” and “kind” with “spineless.”

I try, I really do. I set my intentions, light my candles, and play lo-fi music in the background. I whisper affirmations about inner peace and emotional regulation. I even wear my hair in loose waves, a subtle sign to the world that I’m here to be gentle, not to wage war. But let someone try me—just once—and suddenly it’s like the air shifts, the lights flicker, and Annabelle stretches her porcelain neck with a grin that says, “Tag me in, honey.”

It’s almost impressive, really, how people interpret “I’m working on myself” as “I’m available for your nonsense.” They see “soft girl” and think “soft target.” I could be minding my business, glowing with self-love, and someone will decide it’s the perfect time to test the limits of my patience. They’ll poke, prod, and push, as if they’re auditioning to see how quickly I’ll drop the soft act and upgrade to full-on possessed doll energy.

Oh, you thought I was going to let that passive-aggressive comment slide? Adorable. You assumed my silence meant acceptance, not calculation? How precious. You thought my bubble bath and face mask routine was me hiding from confrontation? Sweetie, my skincare is just as immaculate when I’m plotting your emotional demise. I don’t need to raise my voice—I can destroy you with a smile, a flick of my hair, and a side-eye sharp enough to cut glass.

I came here to heal, not to haunt, but people keep forgetting that healing isn’t the same as harmlessness. Sure, my soft girl era comes with boundaries trimmed in lace, but make no mistake—those edges are razor-sharp. You want to see soft? Try me on a good day. You want to see scary? Keep poking the doll. I promise, you’ll meet every version of me you hoped to avoid.

The best part is how surprised people look when the transformation happens. Like, “Wait, weren’t you just posting about gratitude and inner peace?” Yes, darling, I was. But growth means I can burn sage and bridges with equal enthusiasm. Duality is my superpower. I can write love letters to myself and still draft your eulogy in the margins if you come for my peace.

Isn’t it funny how “soft girl” is always code for “easy to manipulate” in the minds of people who have never actually survived a woman’s wrath? They see the pastels, but they forget about the blood-red warnings stitched into the hem. They mistake my gentle tone for a lack of backbone, my kindness for submission, my patience for permission. And then they act shocked—shocked!—when I unleash the haunted house tour they so desperately booked a ticket for.

Let’s be real: my soft girl era isn’t a costume. It’s a conscious choice. It’s me deciding to be better, not weaker. It’s me choosing not to let the world’s ugliness harden me into another bitter cautionary tale. But don’t confuse my softness for stupidity. I can meditate to calm my mind and then meditate on the best way to cut you off without a second thought. I don’t throw hands—I throw energy, and baby, my aim is impeccable.

Sometimes I wonder if people actually believe their own hype. Like, do you genuinely think you’re going to get away with your little games just because I’m on my “healing journey”? Newsflash, my healing journey includes learning how to curse with poetry and block with style. I’ll sage the room after you leave, but best believe you’ll leave.

Every time I try to bring out the soft girl in me—she’s there, she’s ready, she’s glowing—and every time, someone plays the villain and calls forth the demon doll. It’s almost Pavlovian at this point: someone acts up, I level up. My softness is not your opportunity; it’s my luxury. And if you keep treating it like a weakness, well, don’t be surprised when you get a front-row seat to my horror movie.

The irony is, when I was all fire and fury, people said I needed to “calm down.” Now that I’m calm, they’re desperate to light the match. It’s almost like some people are allergic to a woman who’s both at peace and in power. Maybe the world just isn’t ready for a woman who can bless and banish with the same breath.

You know what else is funny? The way people act like they’re the victims when you finally respond. “You’ve changed,” they say, as if growth is a crime and boundaries are betrayal. Yes, I’ve changed. I’ve learned that soft doesn’t mean silent, and gentle doesn’t mean gullible. I’ve learned that sometimes the best way to protect your peace is to let Annabelle out for a little walk.

Soft girl era? Yes, please. I want all the fluff, all the pink, all the slow mornings and gentle evenings. But if you think that means you can get away with your nonsense, you’re about to get a masterclass in spiritual whiplash. I can go from goddess to ghost story in 0.5 seconds. Make no mistake—I keep the doll on display for a reason. She’s a warning, not a relic.

There’s a special kind of satisfaction in watching people realize they’ve underestimated you. It’s the look on their faces when their antics finally ricochet back and hit them where it hurts. It’s the delicious silence when they realize that the “soft girl” they tried to walk over is now the one holding the strings, deciding which bridge gets burned and which gets rebuilt.

Sometimes, I think people were happier when I was all claws and comebacks. At least then, the battlefield was obvious. Now, I’m disarming in my peace, deadly in my stillness. I don’t need to prove anything—I just need to protect everything. My soft girl era has a security system, honey, and it’s set to “zero tolerance for bullshit.”

So let them talk. Let them gossip and speculate and whisper about how I “changed.” Let them tell stories about the time they saw the Annabelle in my eyes. The truth is, I’m not here to scare anyone—I’m here to love myself enough to never shrink for anyone’s comfort again. If that terrifies you, maybe you should ask yourself why you keep summoning the doll in the first place.

People love to test the limits of kindness. They think it’s a game, a puzzle, a dare. But the joke’s on them, because every time they push, they just remind me why my boundaries are there in the first place. Every trigger, every conjuring, every attempt to disrupt my peace just feeds the legend. And legends, darling, don’t break—they just become immortal.

So here’s my final word: I’m in my soft girl era by choice, not by default. I can be gentle and fierce, delicate and dangerous. I can light a candle and burn a bridge in the same breath. If you keep conjuring Annabelle, don’t act surprised when you get a little more nightmare than daydream. Softness is my superpower, but Annabelle is my insurance policy.

In the end, I’ll keep showing up in pastels, sipping my tea, healing my heart, and minding my business. But remember: just because I’m soft doesn’t mean I’m safe—for you. The real plot twist is that the scariest thing about me isn’t the demon doll, but the fact that I can choose exactly when to let her out.

So go ahead, test me. Push your luck. See how many times you can poke the doll before she blinks. But don’t say I didn’t warn you: I wanted to be soft, but you made me legendary. And legends, darling, never die—they just haunt the people who couldn’t handle their softness."

-Steve De'lano Garcia