The Day I Realized I Was Tired of Being "The Strong One"

Have you ever felt like everything is crashing down on you so fast, like a coconut falling straight onto your head? That's how fast and heavy reality hits sometimes - especially when you least expect it. But the real nightmare isn't that moment; it's what comes after. You won't even remember the exact moment it happens, because it really is that random.

I had my own experience with it - I didn't escape it, and I don't remember when it hit. It started as a tedious, fleeting thought, then this uncomfortable, deafening silence followed by warmth spreading through my chest. I may not remember what triggered it, but I remember how my body felt. It left a bitter taste on the tip of my tongue.

Days before that, I was chanting my usual mantra to myself: "I'm fine; I'm okay; I'm happy" - when I wasn't. I was reading a book after abandoning my previous task of counting sheep, because I couldn't sleep a wink. My brain kept throwing questions at me - ridiculous ones at first, then the painful ones I tried locking away. After flipping a few pages, everything went quiet. All the voices disappeared. It became eerily silent.

I blinked, looked at my long-standing mirror in front of me, stared at myself, and a thought surfaced:

"Why must I keep holding all the threads together by myself?"

"Why hold on?"

"For what?"

"Just why?"

"Let go."

Growing up, I became "the sensible one," "the quiet one," "the strong one," without anyone officially giving me those titles. I just poured myself into the mold everyone expected me to wear, because there wasn't anybody else to take it on. I was the friend who listened, the daughter who didn't cause trouble, the student who didn't ask for help. I handled things on my own. That was my reputation. That was the version of me everyone knew.

And honestly? I loved being the 'strong' one. It made me feel useful. Valuable. Worthy, even - like a walking emotional toolbox people could grab whenever something in their life broke.

But strength has a cost when no one checks on the person carrying the load.

In my case, the cost had a timer - like a smoke bomb.

A few months ago, I hit a wall - softly, quietly, the way sensitive people crash. It wasn't some dramatic burnout. It was more like… little pieces of me dimming one by one. I stopped laughing. I stopped writing. I stopped talking.

I told myself I'd be okay after a short break - that I'd get back on track. But no. I couldn't revive the desire, the inspiration, the creativity itself. I couldn't sit at my desk again.

One evening, sitting on my bed, I stared at a friend's contact on my phone like a half-dead zombie because I didn't have the courage to text them. I felt like a coward. My mind punished me with harsh thoughts:

 "They don't care."

 "People have better things to do."

 "Don't bother them."

I looked away and my eyes fell on the Bible on my bedside table. I abandoned my devices and started reading.

Then something whispered inside me: "You don't have to do this alone."

Such a simple thought - but it cracked open everything.

So I did something rebellious for someone like me: I asked a friend for help.

Not even something huge - just, "Hey, can I talk to you about something?"

My voice shook like I was confessing a crime.

She said, "Of course."

Two tiny words that felt like a safety net I didn't know I deserved. Two words that chased away all the harsh, punishing thoughts in my head.

Since then, I've been learning the uncomfortable art of not being superhuman. I'm practicing saying things like "I need a break," "I'm struggling today," and "Can you be there for me?"

It still feels weird. Vulnerability always does.

But here's the truth no one tells you:

Strength isn't about how much you carry - it's about knowing when to put things down.

I'm not "the strong one" anymore. I'm just a person.

A soft, messy, trying-my-best person.

And honestly?

 That feels like a better kind of strength.

Remember: it's okay to lean on someone. It's okay to hold a shoulder for support. One day, you'll offer a hand to someone else the same way someone offered one to you.