Over the past few days, I’ve been aware of a heaviness I couldn’t quite name. Nothing dramatic had happened. Life was unfolding as it usually does. And yet there was a quiet emotional density sitting just beneath the surface — not overwhelming, but persistent, as though something inside me was waiting to be acknowledged.

It wasn’t until this morning that the clarity arrived.

As I reflected on why certain novels affect me so deeply — why I sometimes need to close the book and let tears gather — I recognised something essential about myself: it is not the dramatic scenes or the grand tragedies that undo me. It is the small moments. The quiet cruelties. The dismissive words. The everyday meanness that characters inflict on one another without even noticing.

A sharp comment.
A look intended to diminish.
A casual hurt passed off as nothing.

Those are the moments that pierce me. Those are the ones that bring the tears.

And today I finally understood why.

I know the weight of small wounds.
I have lived them.

My first marriage was marked by passive-aggressive behaviour — not explosive, not overt, but steady, quiet harm. Tiny cuts delivered without ownership. Each one too minor to point to, but collectively erosive. Over time, I learned what emotional abrasion feels like: the slow wearing-down, the internal calculation of “Is this worth mentioning?” and the ongoing tolerance of harm that never quite qualifies as harm.

Death by a thousand cuts. That is how I used to describe it.

So when I encounter subtle hurt in fiction, it resonates instantly. It’s not about reliving the past. It’s about my body recognising the energetic shape of something familiar. Not trauma returning, but truth remembered.

And interestingly, once I named it — once I said internally, Ah, this is the weight of small wounds — the heaviness lifted. Completely. The clarity itself was release.

This is what healing looks like now. I don’t brace against the feeling. I don’t collapse beneath it. I don’t override it with logic or judgement. Instead, I let the sensation move through, noticing it with tenderness and then allowing it to go.

There is no torment in this recognition. There is only testimony.

The tears that rise when I read those scenes are no longer the tears of a woman burdened by her past. They are the tears of a woman who survived, who understands herself, and who feels deeply without losing herself.

And there is a broader truth here for women in leadership.

Small wounds happen everywhere — in workplaces, meetings, families, communities. They are often dismissed because they are subtle. But their impact on confidence, belonging, and self-trust is profound.

Naming them is part of reclaiming power. Feeling them is part of reclaiming humanity. Speaking about them — publicly, on platforms not always designed for feminine wisdom — is part of reshaping leadership itself.

I share this here because women need to see their emotional intelligence reflected and validated. Because leadership that makes room for nuance, empathy, and embodiment is stronger, not weaker. And because the weight of small wounds lifts the moment we recognise it for what it is.



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