I don’t remember volunteering to be the strong one. I don’t remember raising my hand and saying, Yeah, I’ve got this. Let me carry it all.
But somewhere along the way, I became that person. The one who shows up. The one who listens. The one who doesn’t break.
Being the strong one isn’t a compliment. It’s a slow erosion. It’s learning how to hide the tremble in your hands because someone else is falling apart and you don’t get to fall with them. It’s becoming a fortress for other people, brick by brick, until you’re walled in with no one even noticing you're still inside. And the most fucked up part? You start doing it to yourself.
You believe the lie. You tell yourself:
I can’t afford to fall apart right now.
Other people have it worse.
It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.
I can’t afford to fall apart right now.
Other people have it worse.
It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.
You learn how to hold space for other people’s grief while ignoring your own. You learn how to answer “How are you?” with “Good! Busy!” even when your bones are screaming. You learn how to cry in the shower or in traffic or between paragraphs—quiet, hidden, manageable.
And if you do break, you do it in silence. Because no one knows what to do when the strong one collapses. They get uncomfortable. They panic. They say things like, “But you’re always so put-together.”
And in that moment, you realize the truth: No one prepared for your breakdown because they never thought it would happen. You’ve been cast in this unspoken role—caretaker, problem-solver, emotional first-responder. And breaking character? That’s betrayal. That’s weakness. That’s failure.
Except it’s not.
It’s human.
But the world doesn’t leave room for that humanity when you’re the strong one. There’s no safety net beneath you. You are the net for everyone else. So what happens when you fall?
That’s the part no one likes to talk about.
The truth is, being the strong one doesn’t mean you’re unbreakable. It means you’ve just gotten really, really good at breaking quietly. And eventually, that silence becomes a scream.
So here’s my scream:
I’m tired.
I’m unraveling.
I am not okay.
And if you’re reading this and you feel it in your marrow—if you’ve been holding everyone else’s shit while yours rots in the corner—I want you to know this:
You are allowed to fall apart.
You are allowed to drop the weight.
You are allowed to not be okay.
You don’t owe anyone your constant strength.
You are not a utility. You are a person.
You are soft. You are fire. You are bone and breakage and beauty.
And you deserve the kind of love that doesn’t require you to shatter in silence.
