Being a Soft-Spoken Girl: Between Reluctance and Acceptance, Rebecca Ricci
April 2025
Photo of the author on her first day of kindergarten, with her grandmother
Throughout my entire childhood, I was known as the girl with the gentle voice. Whenever I had to stand up for myself or defend my position, I found the words to do so only in the most delicate way. This was not due to an inability to feel anger, but simply because my tone of voice never changed. I struggled to establish boundaries with others; words didn’t come to my aid, and my voice remained calm and soft. Naturally, a child with a soft and gentle voice, unable to retort, adults around me elevated this quality of being “good” and soft-spoken as an added virtue to my character. I found myself playing at friends’ houses, only to be used by their parents as a benchmark to educate them: “Don’t you see how kind she is? Why can’t you be like that?” If only they knew the mantra my mother would repeat to me before she said goodbye: “Always ask for permission, apologise, say please, and thank you – ALWAYS!” A repetitive chant, at times almost painful, which I took to heart and still hear echoing in my mind today.
Alongside my mother’s teachings, Catholic education further shaped my personality and disposition. I was taught that one should always turn the other cheek, forgive everyone, and be kind, and for most of my life, which is exactly what I did. Religion does this: it creates very precise rules that a good Christian must follow to earn a place in heaven. I won’t dwell on the frustrating and harmful teachings such as guilt or shame, other priceless gems of Catholicism, nor on how my mother made me pray every night to atone for my sins in front of a candle held by a silver angel. What strikes me most is how my brain completely became accustomed to these rules and how all of this shaped me into a docile lamb, ready for the slaughter.
As I grew older, this trait of mine became a frequent topic of conversation. My family, friends, and anyone around me seemed determined to teach me to be tougher, to speak louder, to stop being the girl with the gentle voice. A deep sense of inadequacy began to take root, and over time, I started to feel ashamed of the way I expressed myself. When people described me as “too kind,” “too gentle,” or “too sweet,” their tone carried an unsettling nuance – suggesting that these qualities were not virtues but flaws. Every adjective was inevitably accompanied by the adverb “too,” as if, in part, what I was had a hint of merit, something good – but at the same time, it seemed like a silent sentence of death.
There’s this video made by my family at my graduation party, which I remember as something painful. While being filmed, my relatives were asked to describe me with a positive and a negative trait, and unsurprisingly, both seemed to coincide: too soft.
For a long time, I found it contradictory that my Catholic family emphasised, with barely concealed criticism, this temperament of mine that aligned so well with their religion. I had been taught that God, or at least the one portrayed in the New Testament, was good and merciful and that His voice was gentle and kind. Yet, when I embraced these ideals, I was told that such sweetness would only bring me suffering. Over time, I too tried to learn the art of confrontation. I forced myself to speak more forcefully, to use sharper and more assertive words, but I could never quite manage to hold my ground, to say no, to raise my voice. What I believed would be liberating was, in reality, deeply painful.
Alongside my mother’s teachings, Catholic education further shaped my personality and disposition. I was taught that one should always turn the other cheek, forgive everyone, and be kind, and for most of my life, which is exactly what I did. Religion does this: it creates very precise rules that a good Christian must follow to earn a place in heaven. I won’t dwell on the frustrating and harmful teachings such as guilt or shame, other priceless gems of Catholicism, nor on how my mother made me pray every night to atone for my sins in front of a candle held by a silver angel. What strikes me most is how my brain completely became accustomed to these rules and how all of this shaped me into a docile lamb, ready for the slaughter.
As I grew older, this trait of mine became a frequent topic of conversation. My family, friends, and anyone around me seemed determined to teach me to be tougher, to speak louder, to stop being the girl with the gentle voice. A deep sense of inadequacy began to take root, and over time, I started to feel ashamed of the way I expressed myself. When people described me as “too kind,” “too gentle,” or “too sweet,” their tone carried an unsettling nuance – suggesting that these qualities were not virtues but flaws. Every adjective was inevitably accompanied by the adverb “too,” as if, in part, what I was had a hint of merit, something good – but at the same time, it seemed like a silent sentence of death.
There’s this video made by my family at my graduation party, which I remember as something painful. While being filmed, my relatives were asked to describe me with a positive and a negative trait, and unsurprisingly, both seemed to coincide: too soft.
For a long time, I found it contradictory that my Catholic family emphasised, with barely concealed criticism, this temperament of mine that aligned so well with their religion. I had been taught that God, or at least the one portrayed in the New Testament, was good and merciful and that His voice was gentle and kind. Yet, when I embraced these ideals, I was told that such sweetness would only bring me suffering. Over time, I too tried to learn the art of confrontation. I forced myself to speak more forcefully, to use sharper and more assertive words, but I could never quite manage to hold my ground, to say no, to raise my voice. What I believed would be liberating was, in reality, deeply painful.
Katherine Angel’s Tomorrow Sex Will Be Good Again (2021)
There is an essay by Katherine Angel titled Tomorrow Sex Will Be Good Again (2021), where the author addresses the topic of sexuality in the era of consent from the perspective of female desire. Her stance on issues such as vulnerability and tenderness is mostly, if not entirely, framed from a sexual point of view, focusing on the idea that sex makes us vulnerable and that this condition is often used against us. But in writing that “We need to be vulnerable – to take risks, to be open to the unknown – if we are to experience joy and transformation,” Angel defends the idea of being fallible, of being able to fail, of accepting who we are, of speaking softly and not being able to defend ourselves.1 It’s not just a matter of female pleasure, sexuality, or consent. Angel’s discourse amplifies in billions of different forms, and in all these forms, being sensitive, fragile, and vulnerable is something to be accepted and valued because it’s an integral part of who we are. No one had ever presented me with this perspective: for the first time, being a soft-spoken girl was no longer a flaw. Angel tells us that we were vulnerable little girls, adolescents, and women – that we still are – and that we must come to terms with this and move beyond it. Our task is to accept the boundaries of ourselves and others and, together, remain vulnerable, defenseless, beyond those boundaries.
In an article published in Another Gaze, Rebecca Liu investigates how the character of Barbie in Greta Gerwig’s eponymous film embodies an ideal of perfection that leaves no space for authenticity or vulnerability. When the protagonist enters the real world and confronts human imperfections, she can do nothing but accept them (and cry). “All Barbie can do now is to be human, with all of the vulnerabilities,” Liu writes.2 It’s not about being stronger or tougher, but learning to live with our fragilities, accepting our limits without being overwhelmed by them. It’s a sort of resignation, not in the sense of surrendering, but in understanding that some parts of us are difficult to change and not always “fixed.” It’s not a process of total liberation, but rather one of acceptance – a recognition that being vulnerable, kind, and speaking softly doesn’t mean being weak. It’s in this recognition of vulnerability that the roots of a more authentic existence lie, one that doesn’t need to justify itself or adapt to others’ expectations.
In Ashtanga yoga, the final posture is the relaxation pose, known as the corpse pose or Shavasana. It is the concluding moment of the practice that allows the body to reach rest and calm, during which the instructor repeats a series of phrases guiding the body into relaxation. One of these phrases is, “I release the fatigue of this day to the earth.” This idea – surrendering the body to the ground, becoming heavy enough to let go of all fatigue, thoughts, and pain – is something that resonates far beyond the yoga mat. Learning to release expectations, just as the body surrenders to rest, becomes an act of deep acceptance and inner peace. Vulnerability, I realise, is not so different from this. It’s a surrender to our truest selves, free from the weight of judgment.
Both Katherine Angel’s and Rebecca Liu’s reflections converge on a powerful, often overlooked truth: vulnerability isn’t a flaw – it’s a form of existence that holds its own quiet strength. Angel frames vulnerability as a path to joy and transformation, while Liu shows how Barbie’s journey reflects the necessity of embracing imperfections. This isn’t about liberation from vulnerability but liberation through it.
When Barbie finds herself observing the world around her, the camera shifts to scenes of daily life, where we can’t perceive the dialogues. This sudden shift in focus implies that there is something good in being “partly out of view, free to keep your secrets.”3 As I observe myself, I slowly begin to realise that sometimes I too want to be partly out of view, free from being perceived as the girl with the soft voice. Yet I now understand, with growing clarity, that I no longer wish to hide or dissimulate parts of my nature. Instead, as Angel writes, I choose to accept boundaries and exist beyond them.
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Still from Barbie (2023), directed by Greta Gerwig
In an article published in Another Gaze, Rebecca Liu investigates how the character of Barbie in Greta Gerwig’s eponymous film embodies an ideal of perfection that leaves no space for authenticity or vulnerability. When the protagonist enters the real world and confronts human imperfections, she can do nothing but accept them (and cry). “All Barbie can do now is to be human, with all of the vulnerabilities,” Liu writes.2 It’s not about being stronger or tougher, but learning to live with our fragilities, accepting our limits without being overwhelmed by them. It’s a sort of resignation, not in the sense of surrendering, but in understanding that some parts of us are difficult to change and not always “fixed.” It’s not a process of total liberation, but rather one of acceptance – a recognition that being vulnerable, kind, and speaking softly doesn’t mean being weak. It’s in this recognition of vulnerability that the roots of a more authentic existence lie, one that doesn’t need to justify itself or adapt to others’ expectations.
In Ashtanga yoga, the final posture is the relaxation pose, known as the corpse pose or Shavasana. It is the concluding moment of the practice that allows the body to reach rest and calm, during which the instructor repeats a series of phrases guiding the body into relaxation. One of these phrases is, “I release the fatigue of this day to the earth.” This idea – surrendering the body to the ground, becoming heavy enough to let go of all fatigue, thoughts, and pain – is something that resonates far beyond the yoga mat. Learning to release expectations, just as the body surrenders to rest, becomes an act of deep acceptance and inner peace. Vulnerability, I realise, is not so different from this. It’s a surrender to our truest selves, free from the weight of judgment.
Both Katherine Angel’s and Rebecca Liu’s reflections converge on a powerful, often overlooked truth: vulnerability isn’t a flaw – it’s a form of existence that holds its own quiet strength. Angel frames vulnerability as a path to joy and transformation, while Liu shows how Barbie’s journey reflects the necessity of embracing imperfections. This isn’t about liberation from vulnerability but liberation through it.
When Barbie finds herself observing the world around her, the camera shifts to scenes of daily life, where we can’t perceive the dialogues. This sudden shift in focus implies that there is something good in being “partly out of view, free to keep your secrets.”3 As I observe myself, I slowly begin to realise that sometimes I too want to be partly out of view, free from being perceived as the girl with the soft voice. Yet I now understand, with growing clarity, that I no longer wish to hide or dissimulate parts of my nature. Instead, as Angel writes, I choose to accept boundaries and exist beyond them.
Still from Barbie (2023), directed by Greta Gerwig
Rebecca Ricci is a Turin-based independent curator whose research moves through feminist studies, archaeology, mythology, and contemporary art. She delves into the legacy of the prehistoric Great Goddess, tracing its rediscovery and impact on the radical feminist art of the 1970s. In 2021, she co-curated SOLO. Mario Mafai at Museo Novecento in Florence alongside director Sergio Risaliti. The following year, she joined CAMPO, the curatorial studies program by Fondazione Sandretto Re Rebaudengo in Turin. That same year, she co-founded Pluriball, a curatorial collective that investigates possible and unexpected contaminations between art and other disciplines. Alongside her curatorial projects, she has contributed to the art magazine Exibart and the feminist newsletter Ghinea, where she wrote a tribute to Lea Vergine and an in-depth piece on Maria Lai’s practice, focusing on her iconic performance Legarsi alla montagna. For the past two years, she has been assistant curator at Castello di Rivoli Museo d’Arte Contemporanea in Rivoli-Turin. She is currently exhibitions and events coordinator at MAO Museo d’Arte Orientale in Turin.
1. Katherine Angel, Tomorrow Sex Will Be Good Again: Women and Desire in the Age of Consent, Verso Books, 2021, p. 91
2. Rebecca Liu on ‘Barbie’, published in Another Gaze, August 1, 2023, https://www.anothergaze.com/rebecca-liu-barbie/
3. Ibid.
1. Katherine Angel, Tomorrow Sex Will Be Good Again: Women and Desire in the Age of Consent, Verso Books, 2021, p. 91
2. Rebecca Liu on ‘Barbie’, published in Another Gaze, August 1, 2023, https://www.anothergaze.com/rebecca-liu-barbie/
3. Ibid.