I Don’t Want to Be Brave Anymore. I just want to be okay.

I Don’t Want to Be Brave Anymore

They call me strong.
They say I’m resilient.
They admire how I “always bounce back.”

But here’s the thing they don’t see: I’m exhausted. And I don’t want to be brave anymore. I just want to be okay.

I want a life where I’m not constantly in survival mode, where I’m not praised for enduring what I never should’ve had to endure in the first place. I want softness. Peace. A quiet kind of okay.

For as long as I can remember, being “the strong one” wasn’t something I chose. It was assigned to me. Maybe it started the day I smiled at my mother’s funeral when I was nine, so my little brother wouldn’t cry. Or maybe it was when I got straight A’s while my world was silently falling apart at home. I don’t know. I just know that somewhere along the line, I learned that my pain had to come second. That it wasn’t safe to fall apart.

People love a fighter, don’t they?

They love the comeback story. They love the tearful confessions turned into triumph. They love when you say, “It made me stronger.” They don’t know what to do with you when you say, “Actually, it just broke me.”

They celebrate my courage like it’s a medal. But courage, for me, has often felt like a cage. Like something I couldn’t escape even when I desperately wanted to.

There’s a kind of loneliness that comes with being seen as strong. People assume you’re okay. They check in on others, not you. They think you’ve “got this,” when really, you’re just getting through the day. They confuse your ability to function with actual wellness.

But here’s my truth: I’ve cried myself to sleep more times than I’ll ever admit. I’ve smiled through panic attacks. I’ve said “I’m fine” with trembling hands and a cracked voice. And I’ve felt more like a ghost of myself than a living, breathing human being.

And still—they say I’m brave.

Maybe I am. But I’m also tired. So tired.

I’ve carried the weight of everyone’s expectations for so long. The expectations to be composed, kind, reliable, wise. To be the one who listens, who comforts, who gives grace even when I’m running on empty. And every time I try to say I’m not okay, someone reminds me of how strong I am—like it’s supposed to be a compliment.

But I don’t want to be a compliment. I want to be a person.

What if I told you I wanted to fall apart sometimes? That I wanted to scream into a pillow and not feel guilty afterward? That I wanted someone else to hold the world for a while so I could just be?

I don’t want to inspire anyone right now. I don’t want to be the one who “keeps going no matter what.” I just want a moment to stop. To breathe. To rest in the ordinary safety of being okay.

Not extraordinary. Not brave. Just okay.

Maybe we don’t talk enough about what happens after the fight. About how hard it is to live in a body that’s been constantly in defense mode. About how trauma lingers like smoke, even when the fire is gone. About how being “brave” can sometimes just mean you didn’t have the privilege to fall apart.

I’ve started to learn that it’s okay to let go of the armor. That vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s freedom. That I’m allowed to want ease. Simplicity. A soft life.

So no, I don’t want to be brave anymore. I want to be real. I want to be held. I want to be able to cry without feeling like I’ve failed some invisible test. I want to live in a world where being “just okay” is more than enough.

If you’ve ever felt like this, I want you to know: you’re not alone.

There are more of us than you think—tired warriors who want to put the sword down. Who want to stop performing strength and start healing. Who want to be human again.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the bravest thing of all.

Thank you for reading ♥️