The Cost of Being “The Strong One”

By Nadeem Shah

“You’re so strong.”

“You’ve got this.”

“I don’t know how you do it all.”

At first, those words feel like praise. Like you're doing something right. You’re dependable. Unshakeable. The go-to person when things fall apart. You become the listener, the fixer, the shoulder everyone cries on.

And slowly, without realizing it, you become the strong one.

It’s not a title you asked for. It’s not a role you consciously accepted. It’s something that happens gradually—when you’re the one who keeps showing up, who smiles through your own storms, who quietly manages your own chaos while helping others navigate theirs.

But here’s what no one talks about:

Being the strong one comes with a cost.

And most of the time, no one’s around when the bill comes due.

For me, it started in small, silent ways.

I began waking up already tired. Conversations drained me instead of lifting me. I found myself holding back tears at random times—on the train, in the shower, while brushing my teeth. My appetite dipped. My motivation vanished. And I didn’t tell anyone.

Because that’s the unspoken rule when you’re the strong one:

You don’t get to fall apart.

When friends called, I still answered. When family needed something, I still delivered. When coworkers leaned on me, I still carried the load.

All the while, I was unraveling.

But no one asked.

No one noticed.

And if they did, they assumed I was fine—because I always seemed fine.

Here’s what people don’t understand:

Strength doesn’t mean you’re invulnerable.

It just means you’ve gotten really good at hiding the damage.

The strong one is often the person who has mastered the art of silence. We joke through pain. We redirect conversations. We say “I’m just tired” instead of “I’m overwhelmed.” We keep showing up, because we don’t know what else to do—and because we’re afraid of what will happen if we stop.

And we don't stop. Not until we break.

I remember my breaking point vividly. It wasn’t a dramatic scene. No one witnessed it. It happened quietly, alone in my apartment, on a night when the silence felt heavier than usual.

I sat on my couch and stared at the wall for two hours. I wasn’t scrolling, wasn’t reading, wasn’t thinking. I was numb.

And that scared me more than any panic attack ever could.

Because I realized I had nothing left to give—not to others, not to myself.

I had been emptied out by the constant pouring.

They leaned on me until I collapsed.

And when I did, there was no one there to catch me.

Because no one thought I needed catching.

I had built a reputation around being okay. Around holding it together. And now, no one knew how to hold me.

I felt invisible in my own collapse.

Eventually, I forced myself to reach out. To say the words I had never said before:

“I need help.”

“I’m not okay.”

“I can’t do this alone.”

It felt like failure. Like weakness. But it was actually the first real act of strength I’d allowed myself in years.

One friend cried on the phone with me. Another offered to come over. A third said something I’ll never forget:

“I just didn’t know you were hurting. You’ve always been so strong.”

That’s when I understood the trap I had built for myself.

The world had only seen my armor—never the wounds underneath it.

And in some ways, I had enabled that. I had kept smiling. Kept working. Kept showing up. I had conditioned people to believe I didn’t need anything.

But here’s the truth:

Strong people need care.

Strong people get tired.

Strong people cry alone in bathrooms and scream into pillows and stare blankly into nothing when the world gets too loud.

And if we don’t learn how to ask for help, we’ll eventually burn out in silence.

I’m still learning how to unlearn the patterns of silence. To say no without guilt. To share without apologizing. To remind myself that my worth isn’t defined by how much I can endure.

There’s no medal for emotional martyrdom. No trophy for carrying what should’ve been shared.

So if you’re the strong one in your circle—please, take this as your reminder:

You don’t have to carry it all.

You don’t have to keep pretending.

You don’t have to break quietly.

Let someone in. Let someone hold space for you.

You deserve that too.

Because strength isn’t just about holding others up.

Sometimes, it’s about finally letting yourself fall—so you can rise again, lighter

To the ones always holding others up—you deserve to rest too. You don’t have to be everything for everyone. If this story resonates with you, know that you are not alone.

–Nadeem Shah