I’m Tired of Being the One Who’s “Always Okay”

They say I’m strong.

They say I’m resilient, grounded, composed. The one who always keeps it together when everything else falls apart.

“You’re the rock,” they say.

“You’ve got this.”

“You’re always okay.”

But what they don’t realize is that being seen as “always okay” can be its own kind of prison.

I’ve learned to wear calmness like armor. I’ve mastered the art of showing up for others while suppressing my own storms. Over the years, I’ve become the person people call at 2 a.m. when they’re crying in their car. The one who listens, absorbs, reassures. I’m the emergency contact. The shoulder to cry on. The therapist friend. The fixer.

And I do it without complaint—at least on the outside.

But the truth is: I’m tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep can fix. Not the kind that a day off or a deep breath can ease. It’s deeper than that. It’s the soul-deep exhaustion that comes from being the emotional safety net for everyone around you while having no one to fall into yourself.

People assume I’m okay because I function well. I go to work. I smile in photos. I remember birthdays. I crack jokes. I check in. I say, “I’m fine,” even when I feel like I’m barely breathing.

But what they don’t see is the silence I sit in after the calls end. The heaviness I carry after everyone else has offloaded their pain. The long showers where I let the water drown out the tears I don’t let fall in front of anyone else.

It’s strange—this invisible burden of being perceived as “strong.” Because once people believe you don’t break, they stop checking to see if you’re bent. Once they’re sure you always bounce back, they forget you have limits too.

And so, I became skilled at hiding the cracks. I didn’t want to burden anyone with my pain. I didn’t want to ruin my image as the reliable one. And, honestly, I didn’t know how to ask for help without feeling weak.

But lately, something’s changed.

I’ve started noticing how my laughter feels more like a reflex than a reaction. How my body tightens when I see another “Can I talk to you for a second?” text. How my mind races at night with worries I never let out loud.

I’ve started to realize that being the strong one has come at a cost: I’ve neglected myself for the sake of others. I’ve silenced my emotions so completely that I no longer know how to speak them. I’ve been so busy being “okay” for everyone else that I never stopped to ask if I’m actually okay myself.

And I’m not.

Not entirely. Not lately.

I’m not falling apart in any dramatic, cinematic way. But I am unraveling quietly. In small ways. Forgetting appointments. Losing interest in things I once loved. Feeling distant even in crowded rooms. Craving solitude but fearing the loneliness that comes with it.

There’s a certain kind of grief in realizing you’ve become so good at appearing strong that no one sees your suffering. It’s isolating. It’s suffocating.

And it’s time I admitted that I’m not okay.

I’m not okay with being the emotional dumping ground without anyone offering to carry my load. I’m not okay with pretending just so others can feel comfortable. I’m not okay with smiling through pain just because that’s what people expect of me.

So here it is—my quiet rebellion.

I’m learning to say, “I need help.”

I’m learning to say, “I’m not okay.”

I’m learning to stop apologizing for needing rest, space, softness, support.

I’m learning that strength isn’t about being invincible. Real strength is knowing when to pause. When to break down. When to speak up. When to let someone else be strong for you.

And maybe not everyone will understand. Maybe some will be uncomfortable when the “strong one” finally shows vulnerability. But that’s not my responsibility anymore.

I can’t keep holding everyone else up if it means I collapse in the process.

I’m allowed to feel. I’m allowed to falter. I’m allowed to not be okay.

So if you’re reading this and you’ve been the strong one for too long, let this be your permission slip.

You don’t have to carry it all.

You don’t have to suffer in silence.

You don’t have to be okay just because people expect you to be.

You matter too. Your feelings count too.

And being strong shouldn’t mean being invisible.

If you've spent your whole life being the one who holds everyone together—this is your reminder that it's okay to break, too. Even rocks crack under pressure. You're allowed to rest. You're allowed to be human.

— Nadeem Shah