The Strong One Is Suffering

They call me the strong one.

The reliable one. The one you go to when your life is falling apart, when you need advice at midnight, when you're on the edge and need someone to talk you down. I’ve worn that label like armor for years—believing it meant I was valuable, needed, even loved.

But lately, it feels more like a chain.

Because being “the strong one” isn’t a compliment. It’s a role. A contract. One that quietly demands I set aside my needs, ignore my pain, and stay standing—no matter how much I’m breaking inside.

And make no mistake: I am breaking.

I can’t pinpoint exactly when it started. Maybe it was the week my best friend went through a breakup and I dropped everything to be by her side. Or maybe it was the year my mother got sick, and I became the one who had to hold the family together—emotionally, logistically, financially. Or maybe it was a thousand little moments that added up slowly, silently, like water leaking into the foundation of a house.

All I know is that somewhere along the way, I disappeared.

My needs stopped being a priority. Not just to others—but to myself. I convinced myself that strength meant not complaining, not crying, not needing. That being loved meant being useful.

So I became a lifeline for everyone else.

And no one noticed that I was drowning.

I’ve always been the one with the answers. The one who listens, calms, fixes. People feel safe falling apart in front of me—and I’ve let them, time and again. I’ve held their hands, their secrets, their guilt, their grief.

But when it’s my turn to crumble, the room clears out.

Not because people are cruel, but because they don’t expect it. They don’t know what to do when I’m not okay. I’ve made it look easy for so long that my silence becomes invisible, my pain easily overlooked. They think I’ve got it handled—even when I’m barely hanging on.

So I keep smiling. I keep showing up. I keep answering calls I don’t want to take, giving advice I can’t even apply to my own life.

It’s lonely being the strong one.

Exhausting, too.

There are days when I wake up with a tightness in my chest, not from anxiety, but from sheer emotional fatigue. Like I’ve been holding up a collapsing world on my shoulders and my arms are finally giving out.

There are nights when I lie awake wondering, If I disappeared, would anyone notice?

Would they even ask why?

The honest answer? Maybe. But probably not right away. Because I’ve trained everyone—subtly, unintentionally—to believe I’ll always be fine.

That’s the dangerous part of being dependable: people stop checking in.

You become background support. Expected. Automatic.

Not a person who needs love and rest—but a function.

Sometimes I fantasize about what it would feel like to be held. Not physically, necessarily, but emotionally. To have someone look at me—really look—and say, “You don’t have to be strong today. I’ve got you.”

To be allowed to be messy. To be human. To not be the rock for once.

But those moments don’t come often. So I’ve learned to give that grace to myself.

I’ve started saying “no” without guilt.

I’ve started letting the phone ring when I’m too depleted to listen.

I’ve started journaling again, not for anyone else’s benefit, but because I need a place where I can be brutally honest about how tired I am of being “okay.”

And I’ve started to understand that strength isn’t about how much you carry. It’s about knowing when to set it down.

The truth is: I am strong. But not in the way people think.

I’m strong because I’ve survived every breakdown alone and still got up the next day.

I’m strong because I’ve given without expectation, loved without condition, and listened without judgment—even when I was the one who needed all those things the most.

But that strength came at a cost. And I’ve paid it in silence.

No more.

Because the strong one is suffering.

And for once, I’m letting myself say that out loud.

If you are someone who others constantly lean on—please, take a moment and ask yourself: Who do I lean on? Who holds me? Who checks on me?

If the answer is no one, then maybe it’s time to stop holding everyone else up and start reaching for your own support.

You deserve it.

I do too.

Even the strongest of us break. And that doesn’t make us weak.

It makes us real.

It makes us human.

We always check on the ones who cry, panic, or break down. But what about the one who never does? This is what it really feels like to be the strong one—until you can’t be anymore.