When I think about strength, my mind doesn’t go first to soldiers or leaders or people who conquered nations.

 It goes to my grandmother. I would have died as a todler, exept for her. 

She was not tall. She did not command a room with her voice. In fact, she often spoke so softly you had to lean in to catch her words. But there was something unshakable in the way she carried herself. A steadiness, like the earth itself.

I remember watching her rise before dawn, her hands already at work long before the sun crept over the horizon. She worked, not because anyone praised her for it, but because that is what love required. When life brought hardship, and it often did, she met it with a quiet resilience that made me believe storms could be weathered, not just endured.

Once, during a particularly hard season, I asked her how she kept going without ever seeming to break. She looked at me, eyes deep with years of both joy and pain, and said:

“Child, strength is not about not falling. It’s about standing up each time with your heart still open.”

That has stayed with me all my life.

In a world that often confuses strength with hardness, my grandmother taught me that true strength is tender. It’s not about closing yourself off, but about refusing to let bitterness win.

Whenever I face moments of doubt, I find myself asking: Am I being strong like the world defines it—or strong like my grandmother showed me?

And maybe that is the lesson we could all use:

 Strength is not just power. Strength is love that endures.

Until next time,

Anselm

PS: I am working on my next book and would love to hear from you. Who in your life taught you the deepest lesson about strength? Hit reply and share your story—I may feature some reflections (with your permission) in a future letter.