Both Can Be True
Fierce and fragile. Both, at the same time.
Sculpture: “Expansion” by Paige Bradley
Alice followed a white rabbit down a hole and fell a long way down into a strange place called Wonderland. Nothing there works the way it should. She’s already had a wild day of it — she’s eaten things and drunk things that made her shoot up tall, then shrink down small, over and over, until she’s not even sure what size she’s supposed to be anymore.
That’s when she finds the Caterpillar. He’s sitting on top of a mushroom, smoking, completely unbothered by her. The first thing he says to her isn’t hello. It’s a demand.
“Who are you?”
And Alice — who has spent the whole day being changed, stretched, made small, made enormous — can’t give him a clean answer.
“I hardly know, sir, just at present. At least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.”
He doesn’t like that. He keeps pressing. Explain yourself. Account for yourself. Who are you, really. He’s prickly about it, dismissive, like her not having a tidy answer is a personal failing. She almost walks away from him.
But before she does, he gives her the one thing that turns out to matter. He nods at the mushroom he’s sitting on and tells her:
“One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.”
One side of what, she asks.
“Of the mushroom,” he says. And then he’s gone.
Here’s the part nobody tells you about that mushroom. It doesn’t come labeled. Alice has no idea which side is which. She breaks off a piece from each, and she has to taste both to find out — too much of the one and she shoots up so tall she’s lost in the trees, too much of the other and her chin slams into her foot. The whole rest of Wonderland, she’s nibbling between them. A little from this side, a little from that one. That’s the only way she ever stays her right size.
This part of the story resonated with me so much as a kid and into my teens. Trust me — I read this book almost every year until high school.
I had dealt with so much pain and trauma from my father. I felt pulled in every direction. Stretched past my own mental maturity, then too young to do anything about it. Shattered by the lack of love from my dad. Overly protected by my mother. She tried her best, but she wasn’t raised here and had little to no parenting skills to handle even the normal teenage things.
Just when I felt like I could settle — something would change at home, dramatically. And I had no idea who I was anymore.
Just like Alice. Grilled about who she is. Made to account for herself. Eating from one side of the mushroom and then the other, never sure which was which, never quite the right size.
For years since, I held one belief like a shield: my past, the hurt, the pain — it would never define me. I know exactly what happened. I have held the grief. I leveraged the pain I felt to make a different choice with my own child. I made peace with my mother for the intolerable sacrifices she made to protect me, even when it cost her. My father is no longer able to hold presence in my life. I feel power in the choices I’ve made and the boundaries I’ve set. I firmly believe the ups and downs, the stretching and the shrinking, built who I am and gave me the life I have now.
But there are flaws in that thinking.
I see them now.
Because there’s a difference between that didn’t define me and I never have to feel it again. I had built my whole self on the first one. And I’d quietly turned it into the second.
Reading this as an adult, I see it plainly. I have been eating from one side of the mushroom. The fierce side. The bold side. The hold-my-shit-together-for-everyone side. The other side — the softness, the grace for myself, the forgiveness — has been sitting in a dark cupboard. Completely forgotten.
I had so much pride about it. That I’d overcome all of it. That I’d become this fierce, strong woman who could handle anything. Didn’t need to rely on anyone. Could take on any energy in the room and, like a chameleon, adjust me to the situation. Grow and shrink on command.
So I dismissed the angry outbursts. The ones where I’d rage and lose my temper, couldn’t stop the terrible words coming out of my mouth, listening to myself thinking WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING.
I’d tell myself — well, I was pushed too far. I rarely get mad. Or, they needed me to get that angry before they’d listen.
I was hard and cold to the people I love more than anything, on the days I was really struggling. Loving one day, chilly the next. I couldn’t handle physical affection. And over time, in my family, it became a joke. Yeah, she’s just dead inside.
Re-reading this story made me emotional in a way I didn’t expect. Because I finally saw how much I’d been running on strength and sheer fortitude to get the life I earned — and how much I missed doing it. Years of softness. Grace. Forgiveness. Gone to the cupboard.
Here’s what I want you to take from this. In this wonderland of a life, we have to make room for one phrase: both can be true.
I can be fierce and fragile. Bold and slowly breaking on the inside. That is not a contradiction to fix. It’s two parts of one whole human.
I’m strong. I’m brave. I’m resilient. And I deserve the softness too. Not by going back and digging through the past — I’ve made my peace with what happened. By finally eating from the other side of the mushroom.
When I started actually living that — both can be true — my world shifted.
Take a real example. On the hard days at work, the stressed-out days, I used to take it out on my husband. All day I was the bold, strong woman holding it together. And the second I got home, any little thing he hadn’t done would set me off. I’d turn into a broken, fragile, hurt little girl repeating the generational tantrum. I wouldn’t tell him why. I wouldn’t open up.
Now I try to tell him about my day. What’s challenging me. I let him give me his thoughts, and I take them. It’s taken our relationship to another level. I actively reach for his support and his strength now — instead of armoring up and pretending I don’t need it.
I’m practicing gratitude for the people around me. Saying thank you. Finding ways to give myself grace. Forgiving myself when I make a mistake with the people I love. But not just absolving myself and moving on — I tell them where I wish I’d shown up better, and I ask for a chance to try again.
That’s the other side of the mushroom. I’m still learning to nibble it.
This week’s practice:
Catch yourself on a hard day. Not a good day — a hard one. The day where the jaw is clenched and the answer to everything is I’ve got it.
That’s the tall side. That’s the side I’ve been eating from for thirty years.
Notice it. Don’t fix it — just name it. Oh. There I go again. Strong side.
Then take one bite from the other side. Just one. The next time you’d normally armor up and handle it alone — tell someone the truth about your day instead. The cold shoulder, the I’m fine, the chameleon adjusting herself to fit the room — set it down for one conversation and say the actual thing.
That’s the soft side. Grace. Forgiveness. Letting someone hold a little of it with you.
You won’t get the size right the first time. Alice didn’t either. A little from one, a little from the other, and you keep nibbling until you land somewhere that feels like you. Both sides. That’s the practice.
When’s the last time you told someone the truth about your day instead of armoring up?