I Don’t Want to Be Strong Anymore

”You’re so strong.”

The words have been uttered through the lips of friends, family, and even strangers. Whispered in the lines of funeral visitations. Said with conviction through a smothering hug. Used as encouragement when sharing my story.

It’s a sentiment I’ve heard my entire life.

I pinned the words to my shirt and wore them like a badge of honor. I wove them into my identity and was proud to call them mine. I repeated them back to myself when the mirror reflected my tear-stained cheeks.

Everywhere I went, in every difficult, you-were-dealt-a-bad-hand situation, I carried these words like a sword.

I was thankful for the lesson the first hundred times.

But the truth is, I don’t want to be strong anymore.

I don’t want to be the girl who keeps surviving things she shouldn’t have had to endure in the first place. I don’t want to be applauded for holding myself together when I should’ve fallen apart.

At some point, the words I carried with pride turned into a label I wanted to rip off.

People don’t worry about me. They never think, oh she can’t handle this. They’ve begun to assume I can.

I told myself I can.

I can handle this.

I can carry this.

I’m okay.

I’m fine.

This doesn’t affect me.

I’ve carried burdens that weren’t mine. Given advice I made up along the way. Held the weight of someone else’s pain because they felt safe giving it to me.

“You’re so strong.” Evolved into, “You can take anything.”

I began bracing for impact each time I broke the surface of suffering, knowing the next wave was rolling in to drag me back under again.

I’m tired of being strong. I’m tired of getting thrown life’s challenges like a warrior in an arena. When the crowd gathers with their popcorn and drinks, waiting to see how I’ll handle this attacker. When their jaws drop because they surely thought I couldn’t survive this one.

I want to be soft. I want to chisel down my sharp edges until they’re smooth and round. I want to disappear in emotions I’ve never let myself feel.

I want to heal.

I’m learning endurance isn’t synonymous with strength. Survival isn’t the same as living. Putting on a brave face doesn’t really make me brave.

Strength, I’m finding, doesn’t have to be heroic. It doesn’t have to be loud. It isn’t meant for everyone else to witness.

Maybe my strength is in my quiet moments. Maybe it’s in crying without feeling guilty. Maybe it’s being brave enough to say “I can’t handle this right now”.

Maybe it’s accepting life is never going to be a calm ocean, but learning to float in the waves instead of fighting against them.

Maybe strength looks a lot like surrender.

I’ve been terrified my only purpose is to exude strength until the very end, but forgetting I’m the one who controls that narrative.

Maybe the bravest, most courageous thing I’ll ever do is say enough is enough.

I’m putting down my weapons. I’m coming up for air and this time I’m not going to brace.

The truth is, for a long time I thought being strong meant you don’t feel the pain. I tried to suppress all my feelings because I thought if I didn’t, I was weak.

So, I’m going to let myself breathe. I’m going to cry. I’m going to be angry. I’m going to say none of this was fair. I’m going to stop ignoring the hurt.

And those things aren’t going to take away from my strength.

They’ll only make me stronger.

I’m going to sit with my pain for a little while. I’m going to stitch up the wounds I insisted weren’t bleeding. I’m going to let myself be held. I’m going to hug the little girl who thought her resilience was the most interesting thing about her and tell her it’s actually her ability to feel everything so deeply.

So no, I don’t want to be strong anymore.

Not in the fight-or-flight way.

Not in the emotionless way.

Not in the survival way.

Starting now, my strength will be in the way I take care of myself. In the way I know when I’ve had enough.

When they say, “You’re so strong.”

I’ll respond, “I never realized I had a choice not to be.”

But I do now. And this is what I choose.