Tough Exterior Quotes

She fascinated me, her contradictions, her secrets, and the girl that sometimes surfaced from beneath her tough soldier exterior, like when she spotted the wish stalks on the bank. The girl who forgot who I was and pressed a wish stalk to my ankle. In another world, another circumstance, I think we might have been friends. Or more.

There are many roles that people play and many images that they project. There is, for example, the "nice" man who is always smiling and agreeable. "Such a nice man," people say. "He never gets angry." The facade always covers its opposite expression. Inside, such a person is full of rage that he dares not acknowledge or show. Some men put up a tough exterior to hide a very sensitive, childlike quality. Even failure can be a role. Many masochistic characters engage in the game of failure to cover an inner feeling of superiority. An outward show of superiority could bring down on them the jealous wrath of the father and the threat of castration. As long as they act like failures they can retain some sexuality, since they are not a threat to her father.

She, who prided herself on her tough exterior, could always be undone by the beauty of flight.

You’re a wonderful man, Steele. And behind that tough-as-nails exterior lies a heart of gold.” “Yeah, well, don’t feel the need to tell everybody that,” he said gruffly. “You’re the only one who needs to know that kind of information.” She grinned.

Though it was dark, I could see how his eyes came alive with enthusiasm and the way he used his hands to illustrate with surprising grace. There were hidden depths beneath that impassive exterior. A sweet kernel shielded by a tough shell; dancing fire concealed in stone.

Funny. The woman was funny. Add that up with cute as a button, smart as a tack, and surprisingly tough underneath that cupcake exterior, and Frank understood why Ghost went all Cro-Magnon around her.

Good business demands tough decisions based on rigorous analysis and unwavering follow-through. Emotion can’t really play a part. The challenge we all face as leaders is to let the feelings churn inside you but then to present a calm exterior, and I learned to do that.

What few people realized was that, beneath her tough exterior, Zoë was all about love. It was love that made her fight. Love that made her fierce.

My mother, a woman who, amid abuse, stuffed hope and a way out into the slit of a mattress, is the very face of fortitude. I am an heir to her remarkable grit. However, beneath that tough exterior, I’ve also inherited my mother’s tender femininity, that part of her spirit susceptible to bruising and bleeding, the doleful Dosha who sat by the window shelling peanuts, pondering how to carry on. The myth of the Strong Black Woman bears a kernel of truth, but it is only a half-seed. The other half is delicate and ailing, all the more so because it has been denied sunlight.

Being mentally strong isn’t about acting tough. You don’t have to become a robot or appear to have a tough exterior when you’re mentally strong. Instead, it’s about acting according to your values.

Lucy, the wild and crazy one that would try anything once.  Margaret, the one who seemed the most judgmental of others but had a heart of gold underneath her tough exterior.  Then there was Dot, the mother hen of the group.  Dot was the one Gloria considered the most levelheaded.  And then here was Ruth.  Her dear friend that loved a good gossip and always wanted to be in the middle of all the action.

A small hope that somebody will crack my tough exterior. Not to break me like Donnacha wanted to do, but to love me. To crawl inside my soul, where the pieces of me are most shattered, and love me there.

What Duncan didn’t realize was that under that tough exterior was a really nice guy, which he wouldn’t want to hear anyway. Guys hated to be called nice. But he was. She couldn’t turn around without tripping over the proof.

Both deliberately and unconsciously, we often develop, a social exterior designed specifically to disguise our weaknesses and lacks. For instance, you may think you are dealing with someone who is tough and cynical, without realizing that deep inside they have a soft sentimental core.

All right. Couldn't you just lay your head right down on those words and rest? I wanted those words for my own. No matter how much things change or how time has passed, every single earthly creature pursued the promise of all right, and I was no different. We sought it out in the shelter of caves and underground hollows and in successful husbands and suburban neighborhoods with gates. We fought for it, and manipulated others to get it, and tried to buy it in our organic food and cars with every safety feature and tried to fake it with tough exteriors, and camouflage, and false hopes. We could want a sense of shelter, so badly that we could lose air until the panic of not having it was over, or we could ditch our lives in an instant. The desire for all right was perhaps the only thing we all-every human, every animal- truly had in common, even though the relentless drive for it could make us both stand against one another and seek out one another's warm and flawed company.

I used to live in a fairly tough neighborhood, and some of the kids trick-or-treating looked like they were what teachers call high risk-prone to all sorts of problems, the least of which was dropping out of school. Yet these kids were the ones most likely to be shocked when they looked through my telescope and saw the moons of Jupiter. They would say, "Neat," or "Tough," or "Tight," or whatever the current jargon is for saying, "Wow!" Their cool exteriors were momentarily dropped when shown what the universe looks like up close.

My fierce, blind loyalty to those who were insincere to me was spotted by her early on. After I stood up in class to defend Nadia one day, the teacher took me out and gently explained why I needed to not take risks for other people. She tried to warn me that not all people were worthy of my earnest support, but I did not listen. The friend in question would later abandon me on all key junctures of my life. My H.E teacher had perhaps been through it herself, and could recognise the vulnerability behind my tough, practical joker exterior. But it would be thirty years before I learned to put myself first. We listen to people, but do we hear what they are saying?

Oh, she was a stubborn one, but he’d let her know she’d met her match. Maybe some people might be put off by her tough, I-don’t-need-anyone exterior, but he wasn’t. She was not going to chase him away. Lilly Hart needed to realize he was here to stay. His

Her tough exterior has been blown away to reveal someone with another human quality—dependence.  We all need comfort and we will all seek it in each other. 

It’s funny; the media would go on to treat The Look as if it were Lance’s superpower, something he unveiled at big moments in races, but to us, it was something that happened more often on the team bus or around the breakfast table. If you interrupted Lance while he was talking, you got The Look. If you contradicted what Lance was saying, you got The Look. If you were more than two minutes late for a ride, you got The Look. But the thing that really set off The Look was if you made fun of him. Underneath that tough exterior was an extraordinarily sensitive person.

Myla Esperanza was a whole lot of vulnerable beneath that tough exterior and he didn’t do vulnerable.

When someone violates you sexually, it does not simply haunt and aggrieve you; it alters the very shape of your soul. And altered I was. Contrary to the mythology surrounding the unflinching nature of African-American women, we, too, experience trauma. Black women—our essence, our emotional intricacies, the indignities we carry in our bones—are the most deeply misunderstood human beings in history. Those who know nothing about us have had the audacity to try to introduce us to ourselves, in the unsteady strokes of caricature, on stages, in books, and through their distorted reflections of us. The resulting Fun House image, a haphazard depiction sketched beneath the dim light of ignorance, allows ample room for our strength, our rage and tenacity, to stand at center stage. When we express anger, the audience of the world applauds. That expression aligns with their portrait of us. As long as we play our various designated roles—as court jesters and as comic relief, as Aunt Jemimas and as Jezebels, as maids whisking aperitifs into drawing rooms, as shuckin’ and jivin’ half-wits serving up levity—we are worthy of recognition in their meta-narrative. We are obedient Negroes. We are dutiful and thus affirmable. But when we dare tiptoe outside the lines of those typecasts, when we put our full humanity on display, when we threaten the social constructs that keep others in comfortable superiority, we are often dismissed. There is no archetype on file in which a Black woman is simultaneously resolute and trembling, fierce and frightened, dominant and receding. My mother, a woman who, amid abuse, stuffed hope and a way out into the slit of a mattress, is the very face of fortitude. I am an heir to her remarkable grit. However, beneath that tough exterior, I’ve also inherited my mother’s tender femininity, that part of her spirit susceptible to bruising and bleeding, the doleful Dosha who sat by the window shelling peanuts, pondering how to carry on. The myth of the Strong Black Woman bears a kernel of truth, but it is only a half-seed. The other half is delicate and ailing, all the more so because it has been denied sunlight.

It's truthfully difficult growing up a woman. When I was a girl, we lived in a small town for the most part and nobody cared to know about anything other than what they already knew. And I was something they didn't know. I really think it was harder for me than the average... girls hate you when you're adorable. Every girl in a small town wants to be the only one worth loving and I've always just had this champagne-bottle personality, unafraid to be soft. But girls took that from me, they really did. They hurt me until I had to toughen up. The best thing about being a woman is that, by now, I've learned how becoming even more like myself is more powerful than any tough exterior I could ever put on. They hate that. It really kills them.

Our fans know you for your tough exterior, but the truth is that they don't know you at all. I've been lucky enough to be next to you for the last few years on the show, and the last few weeks as... something more. You've brought out a different side of me. I'm my best self when you're around, and all I want is for you to find the happiness, respect and love you're owed. I can honestly say that I don't deserve you. The fans of the show would be lucky to see more of you. But most of all, I want you to be truly happy. Here's hoping you know that... I will always think of you. I never disliked you. And I never deserved a minute of your time.

I was such a sucker for a self-sacrificing man with a tough exterior and a secret heart of gold. Honestly, it was my weakness. The Kryptonite to my Superman. The tendon to my Achilles. The Hitachi Wand to my vow of abstinence.

She winks, her tough exterior melts for an instant, and I see a glimpse of the elusive and vulnerable woman inside. We often see vulnerability as a weakness, but the truth is that strength is about being honest, authentic, and brave enough to show people who we are. I’m learning. Slowly.

I miss... my family,' whispered Miyuki, her voice small and choking with emotion. Jack realized, despite the tough exterior she presented, Miyuki was vulnerable inside. He recognized the lonely emptiness in her life. 'I miss my parents too,' he admitted.

Look out for the baby seals!” I yelled. “Don’t let the torpedo blow them up!” “I’m doing my best!” Erica yelled back. “You know how I feel about baby seals!” I did. Despite her generally tough and cold exterior, Erica loved baby seals. And sea otters. And kittens. Back at our original spy school, her dormitory walls had been covered with posters of them (as well as one incredibly precious baby sloth)

IHAD MET Sherlock Holmes at a time when adolescence and the devastating circumstances of my orphaning had left me with an exterior toughness and an interior that was malleable to the personality of anyone willing to listen to me and take me seriously.

TRU毕业证办理购买Q微2026614433如何办高仿学历汤姆逊大学毕业证成绩单认证书【TRU毕业证、TRU文凭、TRU学历证书】 JKSSBSVBSVSBSNVSBNSVSBNSVSBNSCSVBSSBNCSSVSVSCSVSCSV I always heard that being a strong Black woman was something to be proud of, and I am proud of it; however, the way that strength had been shown to me was always through suffering in some capacity. The constant experience of trials and tribulations, wrongdoings from others, and the compromise of one’s own happiness had found its way into my subconsciousness. I internalized it in a way that led me to struggle with vulnerability, affection or connection during intimate moments, and being too stubborn (I’m a Capricorn woman, I can’t completely help it). To me, having a tough exterior meant that I was strong. Allowing men to dissatisfy me with mediocrity and not outwardly being hyper-emotional about it meant that I was strong (we will definitely cover this and affection in another post). Being ambitious and taking jobs that deep down had nothing to do with who I wanted to be or what I wanted to do meant that I was strong because I thought I had to in order to be successful. My strength was rooted in having something to prove to other people because of what I thought I was expected to be.

I've ended up with what are essentially dinner rolls that tried to dress as pretzels for Halloween. Benny's, meanwhile, are mall-food-court-level perfection. Apparently the boiling part---plus baking soda---is what gives pretzels their tough, dark brown exterior. Add that to the ever-growing list of things I didn't know about cooking.

Robin taught me that I didn’t have to be one thing, that people could be made of contradictions. She had a nurturing side that she revealed to me in private, but she also had the tough exterior she carried around Vanderveer. When I first met her, around when I was thirteen,

When we shut the book, Brandon turned to me and ran his thumbs over my cheeks, wiping the tears away and pressed a soft kiss to each cheek. He stood up and walked to the other side of the room, pulling Mom out of her chair, he wrapped his big arms around her and thanked her while she cried. This was one of the many reasons why I loved him. Beyond the tough guy exterior, was the most gentle and caring heart. What Chase and I had done had ultimately crushed Brandon. He had quietly stepped aside when he found out instead of taking it out on either of us. He had been there for me when I thought Chase broke my heart, and had helped me out of my catatonic mourning period when he died. He loved me and my baby, despite the mistakes I had made, and was now holding and thanking Chase’s mother for a book to help us tell Liam stories of “how great his dad was”, as Brandon had put it that day.

Most of the time she preferred to be sardonically out of line, out of step. To sound harsher than she was. Which fooled nobody, strangely enough. People saw through her tough-guy routine, even liked her for it, and the cruder her formulations, the harder she tried to be this radical alienated individual, the more profoundly she was loved.