The Gentle Giant's choice

In a town this small, there aren’t many secrets. People know your name, your parents’ name, the color of your truck, and if you skip church more than twice.

At six-foot-five, I stick out like a sore thumb in every grocery aisle, at every football game, even when I’m just walking my dog. This town I’ve been nick named the “gentle giant.” Since middle school when I stretched above all other classmates, they would stare like I’m some mythical creature. Older folks grin and say things like, “Don’t mess with him, unless you want to get stepped on.” But what sticks most, the part that gnaws at me, is that nickname.

The gentle giant.

Which was always followed by a chuckle, like I’m a caricature, a freak show.

The truth is, it never felt like me. Smiling all the time, keeping calm, playing the “gentle giant” role it’s not that it wasn’t part of me. It’s just… wasn’t all of me.

Lately, though, I haven’t been much of anything. My chest has been tight. My hands shake when I pour coffee. My wife says I even clench my jaw at most night. My doctor sat me down, after all the standard tests, flipped through my charts, and said, “You’re carrying too much stress. There is no reason why your blood pressure would be so high unless it’s an emotional response.” He then recommended me to need to talk to someone.

A week later, I found myself in a little office on Main Street, sitting on a couch that looked like it couldn’t decide if it was a place to nap or a place to repent. I half expected a collection plate to come around or the smell of essence, which none of it came. The cushions were thin, like they had been worn down by years of confessions. I wondered how many others had sat here with clenched fists, trying to decide whether to open up or walk out.

The therapist, Dr. Coronado, had one of those calm voices that could talk you off a ledge or convince you to buy a timeshare. We made small talk about my job at the library, my wife’s garden, the weather. Pretty much smooth sailing. Feeling like I was about a test with high scores, until she leaned forward, tilted her head, and asked, “Tell me about your father.”

Something changed. The room felt darker, the air shifted as if I was suffocating. It was as if this Dr. yanked open an old dusty trunk I’d duct-taped shut years ago. Memories I swore I’d buried came flooding back.

My father was an H-E-B truck driver. I hardly saw him, except in snapshots muddy boots in the doorway, a tired body in his recliner, the sound of bottles clinking in the trash. And when I did see him, it was worse than when I didn’t.

If Mom and I made too much noise, if I left the lights on, if dinner was late it didn’t matter.

The discipline came.

It came fast and sharp. He’d grip that belt like it was just another tool of the trade. His voice would go low, calm almost,

right before he snapped. And when it was over, he’d sit down with another drink, like he’d just fixed a flat tire.

I hated him.

Hated the smell of him.

The shadow of him.

The ghost of him.

Wanting so badly to fight back, to protect my mother, to yell at him to stop but nothing came out. Just tears and imaginary scenarios of what I wished I had done.

Sitting on that couch, I felt the heat crawling up my neck, my fists balled tight. For a moment, I wanted to punch the wall, to shatter the framed picture of the empty boat adrift in the ocean as if breaking it would somehow calm me. I wanted to yell loud enough for the whole damn town to hear. I wanted to cry until the weight of it finally left my body.

Instead, I smiled. That same practiced, easy smile people had always expected from the gentle giant. The smile that had gotten me through fights I never had, arguments I never entered, and insults I never returned. People assumed my smile meant peace. They didn’t know it meant, survival.

But Dr. Coronado didn’t smile back. She just watched me. She saw through it.

I cleared my throat. “I don’t talk about him.”

“Why not?” she asked gently.

“Because I don’t want to be him.”

Silence filled the room, heavy and honest.

That night, I sat at the dinner table with my wife, pushing peas around my plate. She looked at me the way only someone who’s lived beside you for years can like she could see the storm I was hiding.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

I wanted to say yes. I wanted to put on the giant’s grin and make it easy for her. But a memory was triggered. About the man at the bar a few nights back. The one who leaned too close, laughed too long at my wife. I remembered how my chest had burned, how badly I had wanted to grab him by the collar and throw him through the door. I smiled then too. She never saw the fire in me. Maybe she wanted to. Or maybe she believed the nickname as much as everyone else.

But I wasn’t okay. I wasn’t gentle. I was angry, and I was terrified of what would happen if I wasn’t so gentle after all.

The next session, Dr. Coronado asked me to describe the moments I felt that darkness the most. I told her about the bar. I told her about nights I stayed awake, heart pounding, teeth grinding, replaying arguments that never even happened.

“Anger is not the enemy,” she said. “It’s a signal. The question is, what are you going to do with it?”

Her words echoed long after I left the office. I walked Main Street that evening, nodding at neighbors who waved, hearing the same old jokes. “Fe Fi Fo Fum!” I laughed along, but inside I wondered if I should tell them the truth, that the giant had cracks, that he wasn’t always gentle, that sometimes the darkness threatened to spill out and swallow him whole.

Flashbacks came sharper now. Nights of hiding in my room, hearing my father’s voice through the walls. The sound of my mother crying softly in the kitchen. The feel of my own breath held tight in my chest, waiting for the storm to pass. Sometimes, I dreamt of him standing in my doorway, belt in hand. I’d wake up drenched in sweat, my wife shaking me

gently, whispering my name.

“You’re safe,” she would say. And I wanted to believe her. But safe from what? My father? Or myself?

One afternoon, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of body that could crush or protect. I wondered if my father ever looked at himself that way. Did he see a monster? Did he care? Or did he simply let the darkness run its course?

I gripped the sink, stared into my own eyes, and whispered, “You’re not him.” Saying it felt like a prayer. Saying it felt like a challenge.

Another week, another session. This time Dr. Coronado asked me to sit with the anger instead of smiling it away.

“Close your eyes,” she said. “Tell me what it looks like.”

At first, I resisted. But then I saw it. A fire, rage, hatred. How did I hate? Why was there hatred towards someone? I admitted I was terrified of what would happen if I allowed rage or to come to light.

“What if the rage could help instead of hurt?” she asked. “What if it could give you strength instead of destruction?”

I opened my eyes, my chest tight, tears threatening to spill. “I don’t know how,” I whispered.

“That’s why we’re here,” she replied.

That night, my wife sat beside me on the porch swing. The air was heavy with the smell of cut grass and summer heat. She slipped her hand into mine. “You don’t always have to be gentle,” she said quietly. I turned to her, startled. She smiled. “You just have to be you. All of you.”

For the first time, I believed maybe she could handle the darkness too.

Weeks turned to months. Therapy didn’t fix me overnight. But slowly, I learned to face the fire. To admit when I was angry. To take a walk instead of slamming a door. To breathe instead of breaking. Some nights I still woke in sweat. Some days the nickname still cut deep. But little by little, I stopped running.

One evening at the bar, the same scenario played out. A stranger leaned too close to my wife. My chest burned, the fire rising. But this time, I didn’t just smile it off. I stepped closer, put a hand on the man’s shoulder not rough, not violent, but steady. I looked him in the eye and said, “Respect my wife.” My voice was calm, but firm, the kind that left no room for argument. He backed away. My wife squeezed my arm. And I realized I had chosen something new not suppression, not rage, but strength.

Back in therapy, I told Dr. Coronado what happened. She nodded, proud. “That’s the fight,” she said. “Not against others, but against the part of you that believes you have no control.”

I leaned back on that couch, feeling the weight shift. For the first time, I felt lighter.

The gentle giant. That’s still what they call me. Maybe they always will. But now I know the truth. Gentleness isn’t about hiding the fire. It’s about choosing how to use it. And the giant? Well, the giant isn’t just big on the outside. He’s big enough to hold both the light and the dark and strong enough to choose which one leads the way.