There is something strange about being called the strong one.
People say it like it is a compliment. They say it with admiration in their voices. They say things like, "I don't know how you do it," or "You're so strong." And for a long time, I wore those words like armor. I carried them proudly because somewhere along the way, strength became part of my identity.
But what people do not always realize is that strength can become heavy.
I think I became the strong one long before I ever knew I was becoming her. I became her in childhood.
I was around nine years old when I first learned to cook. Not because I wanted to learn, but because life asked me to. My parents worked hard—sometimes two jobs, sometimes three—to provide for us, and there were nights I learned to step into the spaces that needed filling. I helped with laundry. I helped get my sisters ready for bed—pajamas on, teeth brushed, making sure everyone was settled for the night. I wanted my mom to come home and have one less thing waiting for her after carrying the weight of the world all day.
I remember feeling needed. And for a child, being needed can feel a lot like being loved. So I became the helpful one. The dependable one. The good daughter. The one who made life easier for everyone else. And once you become that person, it becomes difficult to stop.
You carry it into friendships. Into work. Into relationships. Into communities. Into every room you enter.
People naturally begin to lean on you because you've shown them that you can hold things. And you love people, so you do. You hold their worries and fears. You carry burdens because you never want someone else to feel alone.
You become the person everyone calls. And eventually you stop asking yourself whether your own arms are getting tired. Because strong people are not supposed to get tired.
Right?
At least that is what I told myself.
Strength looked like putting everyone else before myself. Strength looked like taking on more and more without asking for help. Strength looked like pretending I had it all together. Strength looked like never letting anyone see me struggle. But what people do not see are the things hidden beneath it. They do not see the exhaustion. The anxiety. The fear of letting people down. The quiet thoughts that whisper:
"If I stop, everything will fall apart."
For a long time, I wanted people to notice I was carrying too much without me having to say the words out loud. I wanted someone to look at me and say:
"Sit down."
"Rest."
"I've got this."
I wanted a partner who saw me—not just what I could do, but what carrying all of it was costing me. I asked for help before and watched nothing change.
So I convinced myself I could handle it all. Because somewhere deep inside me still lived that little girl who promised herself she would never feel helpless again. But eventually something in me began to crack.
The realization didn't come all at once. It came through therapy. Through burnout. Through panic and exhaustion. Through looking in the mirror and realizing I no longer felt like myself—or even the version of myself I thought I was supposed to be. I had to ask myself a hard question:
Was I being strong...
or was I surviving?
Because there is a difference.
I think for years I believed God only showed up by giving me strength to keep going. And He did. But now I see He was also showing up in quieter ways. In the people He sent. In my friends. In my mom. In mentors who taught me that vulnerability was not weakness. In the people who stayed. And in Alvin.
Because for the first time, I experienced someone who looked at me and did not just see someone capable of carrying everything. He saw someone who deserved rest. Someone worth taking care of. Someone who did not have to prove her value by being exhausted. And it made me realize something heartbreaking and beautiful all at once:
It never had to be that way.
Maybe strength was never meant to mean carrying everything by yourself. Maybe real strength is allowing yourself to be held too.
I have repeated the phrase self-care is not selfish for years now. But I think I understand it differently these days. I think part of self-care is realizing that you do not have to carry everyone and everything else.
To the strong one reading this:
I promise you the world will not fall apart if you put it down.
It will still turn on its axis.
And maybe, for the first time in a very long time, you can finally rest.
— Jennifer Rene Wallace
The World Still Turned
I wore my strength like borrowed steel,
its weight became my name;
For years I thought to carry all
was somehow love's true aim.
I learned it as a little girl,
before my voice had grown;
That helping hands were worthy hands,
and burdens were my own.
So, I became the one they called
whenever storms drew near;
The steady heart, the quiet calm,
the shelter through the fear.
Yet no one saw how tired grows
a soul that never bends;
How even mountains slowly wear
beneath the weight they mend.
I thought that strength meant standing still,
though every muscle ached;
I never knew the strongest hearts
are not the ones that break—
But those that trust another's arms,
when they have carried long;
That lay their heavy burdens down
without believing wrong.
For God was never asking me
to bear the world alone;
He simply asked my faithful steps,
then promised me His own.
And through the hearts He placed nearby—
my family, friends, my guide—
He taught me love can sometimes look
like letting hope abide.
The world still turned when I grew still.
The dawn arrived the same.
I set the burden from my hands...
and never was less brave.
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