They Call Me Strong, But I’m Exhausted

Everyone calls me strong.

“You’ve got this.”

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“You’re the rock of this group.”

“I wish I could be as strong as you.”

They mean it as a compliment. I know they do. But every time someone says it, I feel a strange kind of ache deep inside—like a rope pulled too tight, fraying from the strain.

Because I’m not strong.

I’m just practiced at pretending.

It started years ago. Maybe in childhood. I was the one who stayed calm when the adults yelled. The one who comforted my siblings when our parents fought. I became fluent in silence—reading rooms, anticipating needs, being what others needed before they even asked.

That’s how it begins, isn’t it? You’re praised for being mature, for being resilient, for never making trouble. And before you know it, that becomes your identity.

Be the strong one.

Be dependable.

Be okay.

Always okay.

As I got older, it followed me like a shadow.

In college, I was the one friends cried to at 2 a.m.

At work, I was the person who picked up the slack without complaint.

In relationships, I played therapist, cheerleader, emotional sponge.

And I told myself I didn’t mind. That I was “just built this way.” That it made me feel useful, worthy—even loved.

But slowly, it began to chip away at me.

Because no one asked how I was doing.

No one thought I needed help.

No one assumed I ever broke.

I remember one week when everything collided. My boss piled extra work on me “because I could handle it.” A friend was going through a breakup and called every night in tears. My mother needed help managing my father’s appointments. And I—quietly—was unraveling. I was barely sleeping. My chest felt like it was full of stones. I cried in the shower so no one would hear.

Then one night, I texted a friend:

“Hey, do you have a minute?”

She replied, “Everything okay? You never need anything.”

I stared at the screen for a long time. Then I lied.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just checking in.”

Because how do you explain to someone that you’ve built a life around being needed, and now you don’t know how to need?

Being “the strong one” is lonely.

It’s invisible.

It’s exhausting.

You become so good at hiding your struggles that people forget you have any. You become so accustomed to holding others up that your own collapse feels like betrayal.

Even when I started going to therapy, I kept apologizing to my therapist.

“Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“Sorry, I know people have it worse.”

“Sorry I’m being dramatic.”

She stopped me, gently.

“You don’t have to apologize for having feelings,” she said. “You don’t have to earn rest, or support, or softness. You’re human.”

It hit me like a wave.

Because somewhere along the way, I had stopped believing that.

People say strength is never crying. Never cracking. Powering through.

But I’ve come to believe real strength is quieter. Messier.

It’s learning to say “no” when you’ve always said yes.

It’s asking for help when your instinct is to isolate.

It’s letting someone hold you when you’re used to being the holder.

It’s unlearning the lie that your worth is measured in how much you can endure.

One night, not long ago, I broke.

Not dramatically. Not publicly.

Just… quietly.

I was alone in my apartment. My phone was buzzing—someone needing advice, someone venting, someone wanting a favor. And I looked at it, heart pounding, and I did something I’d never done before.

I turned it off.

Then I curled up in bed and cried. For everything. For the years I spent being okay when I wasn’t. For the help I never asked for. For the pain I minimized because others needed me more. For the version of me that existed only to serve others’ comfort.

And in the silence that followed, something unexpected came: relief.

I’m learning now that I can still be strong—but not at the cost of my well-being. I can be supportive without being a savior. I can be compassionate without being a martyr.

I still show up for the people I love—but I’ve stopped showing up for everyone at the expense of myself.

Sometimes I say, “I can’t talk right now.”

Sometimes I take a day off, even when things feel urgent.

Sometimes I don’t reply right away.

And sometimes, I admit the truth:

I’m tired.

I’m overwhelmed.

I’m not okay today.

And you know what?

The people who truly love me understand.

So yes, people still call me strong.

But now, when they do, I smile in a different way.

Because I know strength isn’t about never breaking.

It’s about knowing you’re allowed to.

Author's Note:

To anyone reading this who feels like they always have to be the strong one—please hear this: You don’t have to carry it all alone. You’re allowed to fall apart. You’re allowed to need. And you deserve the same care you so freely give.