The Silent Weight of Being the Strong One.
There’s a kind of heaviness that comes with being the “strong one.” It’s not loud or dramatic; it doesn’t cry out for help. It lives quietly in the background, behind calm smiles and the words, “I’m fine.” You become the one people turn to when their world falls apart, the one who always seems to have it figured out. But no one ever stops to ask if you’re okay. Because they’ve never had to.
I was the child no one had to worry about. My mother was too busy worrying about the man in her life at the time, and my father was more invested in the new family he’d created. I was my mother’s only child, but I often felt like no one’s child at all. There wasn’t much guidance — just survival. I learned early on how to take care of myself, how to figure things out when no one else would.
I remember one night, when I was eighteen, driving an old beat-up car that had a habit of breaking down. It was late, and I was on a back, winding road when the engine started to smoke and the car finally gave out. I was alone, scared, and unsure what to do. I called my dad, hoping that just this once he’d come through.
He answered, and I told him what happened. His response was simple: “I’m at dinner with my girlfriend. Let me know when you get it figured out.” Then he hung up.
My mom was drunk that night and didn’t answer her phone.
So there I was stranded, heart pounding, tears welling, trying to figure it out on my own. And I did. I always did.
But I shouldn’t have had to. I should have been able to depend on the people who were supposed to protect me.
That night changed me. It taught me that the only person I could truly rely on was myself. From that moment on, I built walls. Thick ones. I became the dependable one. The person who others turned to, the one who could handle anything. Because when you’ve learned to survive without anyone, it becomes second nature to never need anyone.
Even now, as an adult, as a wife, that part of me lingers. My husband is patient, but I know my hard-headedness drives him crazy sometimes. It’s not that I don’t trust him; it’s that old habit of handling everything on my own. It’s the reflex of the strong one. I’ve spent my whole life being the person no one had to worry about, and sometimes it’s hard to remember that I don’t have to be anymore.
People think being strong means being unshakable. But the truth is, being strong has always been my way of surviving and not because I wanted to be, but because I had to be. There’s an ache that comes with that kind of independence. It’s the kind that makes you want to be held, but you don’t know how to let go long enough to let someone hold you.
Sometimes I wonder what it would’ve been like to have someone check in on me. To have someone say, “You don’t have to figure it out alone this time.” Because even the strong ones…especially the strong ones..need saving too.
I’m still learning that strength doesn’t mean silence. It doesn’t mean doing everything alone or pretending I’m okay when I’m not. True strength, I’m finding, is softer and it’s being brave enough to let people in, to ask for help, to say, “I can’t do this by myself today.”
I’m learning to trust that not everyone will leave when things get hard. That not everyone will hang up or ignore the call. Some people really will show up and that’s okay to believe in.
Maybe healing doesn’t look like never needing anyone again.
Maybe healing looks like finally believing you deserve to be cared for, too.