People talk about power
like it’s something to take.
Take over.
Take charge.
Take the world.
But real power
is quieter than that.
It shows up at night
when no one is watching.
It climbs in the cold.
It works with hands and muscle and nerve.
When the storm comes
and the lines fall,
someone still has to rise.
Men do that work.
The heavy work.
The dangerous work.
The kind that hums with voltage
and smells like rain and steel.
They climb towers that sway in wind,
balance on beams
where one slip matters.
Hands scarred.
Bodies tired.
Strength spent without applause.
I don’t want that work.
I couldn’t do it.
Not the hauling.
Not the climbing.
Not the quiet courage
it takes to step into the dark
so others don’t have to.
That truth doesn’t make me smaller.
It makes me honest.
And honesty is its own kind of power.
If women ruled the world alone—
who would fix the power grid?
Not as a challenge.
As a question of respect.
Because strength has many shapes,
and not all of them look like leadership
or language
or vision.
Some of them look like men
in thick boots,
faces worn by weather,
climbing steel skeletons
against the night.
This isn’t about who leads
and who follows.
It’s about knowing
what you carry
and what you don’t.
I can hold the room.
I can hold the plan.
I can hold the people.
But when the lights go out,
I am grateful
for the power of men
who climb
so the rest of us
can rest.
And we don’t need to take over the world.
Painting is how I listen. Writing is how I answer.