She Takes Her Time
A poem on patience, scotch, and being underestimated
She Takes Her Time
They expect bravado
when I order scotch.
Instead, I ask for one cube.
Not to soften it.
To listen to it change.
The glass sweats.
The cube cracks once,
then settles.
I hold it like someone
who knows restraint is a skill.
Slow turns of the wrist.
A measured sip.
The edge arrives first.
Smoke.
Heat.
That brief, honest bite
before the oak opens.
They watch, still confused.
Mistaking patience
for an inability to take the burn.
But this is not a contest.
It’s a practice.
Strength that doesn’t rush.
Precision without display.
I drink slowly
because perfection deserves time.
The best things
open slowly.
Not everyone
can wait.
Reflection
Women are underestimated less by confrontation than by assumption. A choice is observed, quietly measured against expectation, and misread. The judgment is rarely spoken. It lives in the pause.
What is taken for delicacy is often control. What is read as hesitation is frequently decision already made. There is an enduring belief that strength must declare itself to count. That confidence must be visible to be credible.
I have learned otherwise.
Some forms of strength do not perform. They do not rush. They do not correct misinterpretation. They allow misunderstanding to pass without interference.
Being true to oneself does not require explanation. It requires consistency. When a woman moves without adjusting for the room, she alters it.
Not by force, but by refusal.
Underestimation is not always a disadvantage. It removes distraction. It creates space. And in that space, precision becomes possible.
Strength, when real, is unmistakable.
And some things are best left exactly as they are.
I often notice those who try to show others their strength are never the strong ones, rather its those that allow others to speak their minds, listening to everyone's conflicting opinions, and still remain firm in their beliefs, that are the truly strong ones. Loved the poem.
I recognise this kind of strength immediately, the quiet discipline of knowing exactly what you are doing and not needing it to be witnessed correctly. The moment with the ice cube feels like a ritual of self trust, not softening, not proving, just attending. I love how the poem and the reflection speak to the same truth from different angles. The poem shows the practice. The reflection names it.
What stays with me most is the refusal to correct the room. That choice carries so much authority. There is confidence here that does not lean forward, does not sharpen itself for display. It simply remains. And in remaining, it changes the temperature of everything around it.
This feels less like a statement and more like a settled way of being. Measured. Intentional. Unavailable for misreading, even when it is misunderstood. That is a rare and earned kind of power. Thank you for sharing, it give confidences to others