Radical Tenderness is a practice, which implies practicing. Like, daily.

You're worthy, even when you're messy.

(“Radical Tenderness 2017” by Colombian artist Iván Argote, Sculpture, Laser cut Corten steel, threaded rod)

I find I have turned my eye inward in my writing these days, to the base level of what it means to be human in an inhumane world. I’ve begun to explore the intention of our living, not just the circumstance. And I know now that radical tenderness is a way of living I aspire to.

It’s about meeting the world—and ourselves—with fierce compassion, especially when it’s hardest to do so. When the easy thing would be to shut down, lash out, or walk away, radical tenderness invites us to stay soft. Not soft like fragile. Soft like brave and porous. Able to take things in, to be close. To be in relationship with the world, not apart from it.

We live in a world that often rewards toughness, sarcasm, and distance. But radical tenderness pushes against that. It says: Be vulnerable anyway. Be kind, even when it’s not cool. Be present, even when it’s uncomfortable. This isn’t about being “nice” to keep the peace. It’s about choosing courage over cruelty. It’s about loving where love doesn’t usually go.

At its heart, radical tenderness refuses the idea that we have to earn care. It says: You’re worthy, even when you’re messy. Even when you’re hurting. Even when you’ve made mistakes. It reminds us that people act out of pain more often than malice. That doesn't mean harm is okay—but it does mean we can choose to respond with understanding instead of punishment. We can say: This hurt. And I still see your humanity. That is hard to do; that takes practice.

This kind of care has deep roots—in queer and feminist communities, in decolonial practices, in the wisdom of people who’ve lived through grief, injustice, and survival. Artists and organizers like Cara Page talk about radical tenderness as a way to build something better: not just justice that punishes, but justice that heals. Not just survival, but connection. Not just penance, but redemption.

And here’s the part many of us forget: radical tenderness isn’t just for others. It’s for us, too. This is the hardest part. So many of us are quick to offer care outward, but inside? We’re brutal. We silence our needs. We beat ourselves up for being tired or afraid. Practicing radical tenderness means offering ourselves the same gentleness we’d give a friend. It means holding ourselves—not just when we’re thriving, but when we’re falling apart. Especially then.

This doesn’t mean we avoid hard conversations or let people (or ourselves) off the hook. Radical tenderness is not passive. It means being honest without being cruel. It means staying in the room when things get tough. It means standing firm in love, even when it would be easier to run.

And maybe more than anything, radical tenderness slows us down. It says: Pause. Breathe. Feel. In a world that’s rushing, numbing, and selling quick fixes, that’s a radical act. It brings us back to the body, back to each other, back to what matters. Enough with the numbing. It’s not serving us.

To live with radical tenderness is to keep choosing love—not the fluffy kind, but the fierce, persistent kind. The kind that shows up when it’s not easy. That hopes when hope feels silly. That reaches out when everything says to retreat. It’s not weakness. It’s the deepest kind of strength.

And it just might be the thing that saves us.

Come, practice with me.

Love,

Patti