(image)
“Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is to ask for help.” ~Unknown
We live in a world that praises strength—especially quiet strength. The kind that shows up, gets things done, and rarely complains. The kind that’s resilient, dependable, productive. But what happens when the strong one quietly breaks inside?
“You are a superwoman!”
“You’re so reliable!”
“You’re the glue that holds everyone together.”
I wore those compliments like badges of honor. For years, I believed them. Not just believed them—I built my identity around them.
I’ve always been a multitasker. A jack of all trades. I managed work, home, …
(image)
“Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is to ask for help.” ~Unknown
We live in a world that praises strength—especially quiet strength. The kind that shows up, gets things done, and rarely complains. The kind that’s resilient, dependable, productive. But what happens when the strong one quietly breaks inside?
“You are a superwoman!”
“You’re so reliable!”
“You’re the glue that holds everyone together.”
I wore those compliments like badges of honor. For years, I believed them. Not just believed them—I built my identity around them.
I’ve always been a multitasker. A jack of all trades. I managed work, home, relationships, and a hundred moving pieces in between. I cooked elaborate meals, remembered birthdays, bought thoughtful gifts, checked in on friends regularly, showed up for strangers when needed, pursued hobbies, supported others’ dreams, and pushed through physical pain or emotional fatigue without complaint.
I was the one people turned to. And if they didn’t turn to me, I turned to them. If someone was going through a hard time, I’d show up with soup, a handwritten card, or a call that stretched for hours. I’d intuit needs before they were spoken.
And when people said things like “Wow! How do you even manage all this?” or “You’re incredible,” my heart swelled with pride. It felt good to be seen. It felt powerful to be needed.
But over time, I began to realize something quietly tragic.
Underneath all that strength was someone tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix—but the kind that comes from years of overriding your own needs for others. The kind that comes from confusing love with over-giving. The kind that sneaks up when you’ve worn the strong-one mask for so long, you don’t know who you are without it.
I didn’t see it as people-pleasing back then—I truly loved being helpful. I believed that if I could ease someone’s burden, why shouldn’t I? Isn’t that what love looks like? Isn’t that what kindness does?
But slowly, quietly, invisibly, it was taking a toll on me. My skin had withered, my hair had thinned, and I’d put on weight around my waist.
As I grew older, I began to feel the shift. The same enthusiasm that once lasted until midnight now faded by sunset. The fatigue wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, spiritual. My body wasn’t breaking down, but my soul was whispering, “You can’t keep carrying everything.”
And eventually, I listened.
Because something beautiful and painful hit me all at once:
Strength isn’t about holding it all together. Sometimes, real strength is in knowing when to
