WHEN HEALING BECOMES HEAVY; IM TIRED OF BEING THE STRONG ONE

I don’t remember the first time I was told I had to be strong. Maybe it was the day I wiped my own tears in silence because no one had the time to notice them. Maybe it was when I stood by the kitchen door watching my mother cry, and I knew, somehow, I wasn’t allowed to cry too.

Being strong wasn’t a choice. It was assigned to me.

As the firstborn, the first girl, or the one who simply seemed "mature for her age," I learned early how to pick up the pieces. I wiped snotty noses, covered for broken promises, held secrets that were too heavy for my little hands. And with each year, the world clapped for my strength while my soul quietly bled.

They call us the strong ones, but they don’t ask us how we’re really doing. They say we’re brave, resilient, inspiring. But no one asks, "Are you tired? Do you feel seen? Do you still want to keep going?"

Let me be honest: I am tired.

Tired of being everyone’s emergency contact but having no one to call when I break down. Tired of being the one who gives the best advice while crying myself to sleep at night. Tired of pretending that I have it all together just so no one else has to worry.

Healing is hard. But healing while still carrying everyone else is heavier.

Some days, I wake up and feel the weight before my feet even hit the ground. The emotional labor of being strong is like dragging an invisible bag filled with unmet needs, unspoken pain, and unresolved trauma. And when I try to put it down for just a moment? The world reminds me, "No. You’re the strong one. Don’t fall apart now."

But what if I did?

What if I told you that sometimes I envy those who can cry freely, collapse into someone else’s arms, and be held without needing to explain? What if I said I dream of being the one who gets rescued for once, instead of always doing the rescuing?

Strong doesn’t mean invincible. Strong doesn’t mean happy. Sometimes, strong is just what we call survival.

There’s a deep, painful loneliness that comes with being the one everyone leans on. It’s not just the burden of helping others; it’s the silence that comes when you’re the one who needs help, and no one shows up.

I’ve been the shoulder, the ear, the fixer, the provider. And I’m proud of how far I’ve come. But I’m also grieving the parts of me I had to bury just to be who everyone needed.

I’m grieving the little girl who never got to be held.

I’m grieving the teenager who had to learn that love comes with conditions.

I’m grieving the woman I could have become if I wasn’t constantly tending to the wounds of everyone else.

And still, I rise. Every single day. Not because I’m strong, but because I don’t know what else to be.

But today, I want to give myself permission. Permission to feel. To rest. To not have the answers. To cry without apology. To say, "I'm not okay," and not rush to fix it. I want to unlearn the idea that I am only valuable when I’m needed.

To anyone reading this who relates you are allowed to break sometimes. You are allowed to be soft. You are allowed to ask for help. Being strong has carried you this far, but it doesn't have to carry you forever.

Let people earn your strength, not expect it. Let love find you in your softness, not just your sacrifice. Let yourself be held the way you've always held others.

This is not a confession of weakness. This is a declaration of humanity. And maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to stop being strong for a while.

You deserve that.

We all do.