Part 2 - What It Costs to Be the Strong One

Strong isn’t a compliment when it’s keeping you from falling apart.

Everyone calls you strong. But no one asks what it’s costing you.

The more people believe you’re capable, the less space you have to be human, to fall apart, to say, “this is too much.” When you're the one others count on, you learn to keep going even when you're bone tired. You stay functional even when you're hurting. You pretend things are under control because if you stop pretending, it might all fall apart.

But if I’m honest, I’ve spent years making sure no one would think to ask if I was struggling. I kept it looking easy because I couldn’t risk their sadness on top of mine. I couldn’t handle their worry. Or their well-meaning attempts to help that completely missed the mark. Most people don’t know how to listen without fixing, and I didn’t have the energy to be misunderstood while I was already barely holding it together.

That’s not strength. That’s survival. And it’s not sustainable.

Being the strong one has kept me from asking for help more times than I can count.

Not because I don’t want help, but because the amount of coaching or explanation it takes to delegate something can feel more exhausting than doing it myself. It’s not just about the task, it’s about the setup, the follow-up, the hand-holding. The invisible labor of managing how people show up, even when their intentions are good.

Other times, I don’t ask for help because I’m afraid they’ll actually do it and then I’ll owe them. I’ve spent so long being the reliable one that receiving feels like it tips the scale too far. It messes with the identity I’ve built. And in some twisted way, it feels safer to stay independent than to risk being disappointed or misunderstood.

Sometimes I don’t ask because I know their version of “helping” will leave me with more mess to clean up. Their offer comes with strings, opinions, or their own need to feel useful. And suddenly, I’m not just managing the task, I’m managing their emotions around it too. That’s not help. That’s another job.

And then there’s the guilt. The voice that says, “You have it good. You should be able to handle this.” As if needing support disqualifies me from gratitude. As if asking for help means I’ve failed at keeping it together like I always do.

These are the things we don’t say out loud. The kind of heavy that comes from always being the steady one. Not because we’re hiding but because the cost of being misunderstood has felt higher than the cost of just pushing through.

But I’m learning that the real cost is me.

I know I’m still a work in progress. I still catch myself believing that needing rest means I’ve done something wrong, or that struggling means I’ve failed. But I’ve also come far enough to recognize the pattern and interrupt it. I’ve stopped calling burnout a personality trait. I’ve started paying attention to the cost of constantly showing up for everyone else without checking in on myself.

This isn’t a post for everyone. This is for the women who already know.

For the teacher who gives everything in the classroom and still walks in the door to her own kids needing more.

For the mom running her side business during nap time, pouring so much love into something that barely leaves room for herself.

For the woman who’s really good at being needed but can’t remember the last time she said “I need” out loud.

You’re not weak. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re just doing too much, and doing it alone.

I’m done using strength as a mask. I’m done protecting people from the truth of how hard this is.

If any of this hits home, start small. Tell one true thing today. Even if it’s just to yourself.

We carry a lot quietly. And it’s not always because we’re hidin, sometimes it’s just too hard to explain. But there’s another kind of weight. The one no one warns you about. The grief that hides inside a life you chose.

That’s where we’re going next.