Tempering My Fire

The Journey of Rediscovery Series - Post 2

by Valerie L Valentine

The Girl Who Spoke Up

When I was in the first grade, we lived on a military post. Across the street from us was the First Sergeant — a man whose voice carried authority and whose boots clicked with importance.

One afternoon, my sisters and I were playing outside when we saw him back his car out of the driveway. Suddenly, something small and gray went flipping and tumbling across his yard. We laughed at first, thinking it was a kitten playing in the grass.

Like responsible children, we waited for his car to pass before running across the street to investigate our little acrobat. But what we found wasn’t what we expected. The “playful kitten” hadn’t been playing at all — it had been caught in the car’s engine and thrown out by the fan blade.

We were devastated.

Dad helped us bury the kitten, but I wasn’t done. When the First Sergeant came home, I marched over — six years old and full of righteous fury — and told him exactly what I thought of what he’d done.

Image created using ChatGPT. It is symbolic of my discussion with the First Sergeant.

My parents told me years later that it was quite the sight: a little girl chewing out a six-foot man in uniform. But at the time, it didn’t feel brave — it felt natural. Something unjust had happened, and I had to say something.

That is, until I was reprimanded. 

Told that I couldn’t talk to adults that way. 

Told to apologize.

So I did. And for the first time, I learned that truth can make people uncomfortable — and that comfort often matters more than honesty.

The Silence of Second Grade

In second grade, I met another test of that lesson. A new student was seated beside me, and my teacher told me to help him get used to our class.

Later that day, during silent work time, he asked me a question about his assignment. I whispered back an answer. The next thing I knew, we were both led into the hallway for talking — and given a paddling.

I couldn’t make sense of it. 

How could helping be wrong?

How could kindness deserve punishment?

Created using ChatGPT. An image of "me" sitting at my desk in my second-grade classroom.

That day, my sense of fairness fractured just a little more. I decided the safest thing was to stay quiet. For months, I hardly spoke in her class at all.

The fire was still there, but I’d learned to hide it under the surface.

Too Friendly

Years later, in college, that same pattern reappeared — only this time it came wrapped in romance.

I was engaged, and one day my fiancé told me we needed a break. His reason?

“You’re too friendly.”

He had once loved that I was outgoing, warm, and full of light. But somewhere along the way, the glow that drew him in became too bright to stand beside.

By then, I had already learned to shrink myself to make others comfortable. I smiled smaller, spoke softer, tried to take up less space. His words only confirmed what the world had been teaching me since childhood:

Warmth must be rationed. 

Kindness must have limits. 

Fire must be controlled.

It’s strange how the world asks for your light — until it becomes inconvenient.

Tempering the Flame

I’ve since learned that fire, when tempered, doesn’t disappear. It’s refined. Directed. Shaped.

But no one tells you that too much tempering can make the metal brittle. You can only bend so long before you break.

For years, I believed that holding my tongue, playing small, and being agreeable were signs of maturity. I thought calm meant wise. I thought quiet meant strong.

Now I understand that strength isn’t the absence of fire — it’s learning to hold it without burning yourself or others.

My voice is still warm. My empathy still fierce. But I’ve stopped apologizing for either.

Reclaiming the Flame

Sometimes I wonder what that six-year-old girl would say if she saw me now — the one who once stood before a First Sergeant, trembling but unyielding.

I think she’d be proud. She’d see that I still speak up, still care deeply, still feel everything fully. The difference is, I’ve learned when to channel that fire and when to let it dance freely.

I created this image using old photos of myself and editing them with Canva and Procreate.

I’ve stopped mistaking containment for control, and silence for peace.

Because the truth is, my fire never went out. It was only tempered — waiting for me to stop fearing the heat.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to let it burn bright again.

Reflections & Resources

Reflection: 

When was the first time someone told you that you were too much? How did that moment change the way you showed your light to the world?

Artist’s Notes: 

This piece helps to bridge The Story of a Second-Best Career and Relearning How to Shine. It explores how early lessons in obedience, modesty, and “niceness” can dull the edges of a bright spirit — and how reclaiming that fire is part of becoming whole again. It is the second installment in my The Journey of Rediscovery Series.

Further Reading / Inspiration:

• Untamed by Glennon Doyle

• The Dance of the Dissident Daughter by Sue Monk Kidd

• The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron

• My post: The Story of a Second-Best Career

• Coming soon: Square Peg, Round Hole: On Not Fitting In