Let that Sh*t Soak
Tres leches cake.
A golden sponge soaked in three milks.
Soft, but not weak. Sweet, but calculated.
Like a slow jam with bars—one bite and you feel that sh*t in your chest.
I’m not going to lie. I didn’t always respect this cake.
I was raised Black and male in a world that treats softness like a glitch in the system.
We were taught to armor up.
Cry and you’re a punk. Speak up and you’re “doing too much.”
So I learned to be quiet, cut sharp, and move like I had no feelings to catch.
I became emotionally bulletproof.
But like most things built for defense, I was heavy. Tired. Hard to hold.
I was like dry cornbread with no butter—edible, but barely.
First time I made tres leches, I was tryna impress someone.
One of those poetic types.
Quoted Maya Angelou and Tupac in the same breath, wore headwraps and hoodies, and could spot emotional immaturity from across the room.
So I came with my best: the kitchen.
Baked the sponge.
Poured the milk—evaporated, sweetened condensed, whole milk.
Then I watched that cake take it all in. No resistance. No collapse.
It just… absorbed.
Like, “Yeah, I been through it. And I’m still standing.”
That cake stared back at me and I heard,
“So what’s your excuse?”
Because tres leches isn’t just dessert—it’s a metaphor for growth.
It takes the heavy. The sweet. The sh*t nobody wants.
And instead of breaking apart, it gets richer.
More flavorful.
More whole.
Soft Isn’t Weak. It’s Mastery.
I didn’t grow up in a household where we unpacked feelings.
We grilled 'em.
We buried 'em under jokes.
We chopped 'em up like onions and hoped nobody noticed the tears.
My Pops didn’t say, “I love you.”
He handed you a plate and told you not to drop it.
That was the language.
Feed 'em and keep it moving.
But now that I’m grown—therapy-grown, sit-with-my-own-thoughts grown—I realize I was starving in ways I didn’t have words for.
Turns out, you can be smart as hell and emotionally stuck.
You can quote Baldwin but still can’t tell someone you’re hurting.
And here’s the kicker:
You can’t heal what you refuse to feel.
The grief. The guilt. The anger from childhood that’s still riding shotgun every time someone gets too close.
Let That Sh*t Soak
That tres leches cake taught me more than some folks I’ve known for years.
Healing isn’t about being strong all the time.
It’s about being receptive.
Letting the sweetness hit. Letting the heaviness in.
And learning how to sit with it, without folding.
So yeah, I’m still in process.
Some days I still flinch at softness.
Still catch myself trying to be stoic when I really need to just say,
“Yo, I’m not okay today.”
But I’m learning.
To rest.
To stop trying to outrun pain and let it teach me something instead.
'Cause here’s the truth:
Even the hardest bars ride best over a soulful beat.
So if you’re reading this thinking you gotta “man up”—
Let me be the first to tell you:
Softness isn’t the enemy. It’s the cheat code.
Let it in. Let it soak.
You’re still real. Still valid. Still powerful as hell.
And when the world tries to test you?
Serve 'em a slice of that growth and say:
“I’m not hard—I’m healed.
And I still slap in every room I walk into.”