Strong on the Outside, Silent on the Inside

written By Nadeem Shah

They say I’m the strong one.

Friends call me when their world is falling apart. I’m the first to arrive and the last to leave. I listen, nod, reassure. I offer rides, cover shifts, lend money I barely have. I remember birthdays, support goals, and say “I’m fine” even when I’m anything but.

Strength becomes a persona, a role you fill until it fuses with your identity. At first, it feels like power—being needed, being the one who can handle everything. But over time, it becomes something else entirely: a burden disguised as a virtue.

People don’t notice when the strong one starts to fracture. You’ve trained them too well.

It starts subtly. A missed call you don’t return. A message you leave on read because you can’t summon the energy to respond. You begin waking up already tired, like the emotional weight you carry followed you into your dreams. You stare at your ceiling in silence, dreading the next demand, the next crisis, the next time you have to say, “No, really, I’m okay.”

You're not okay.

But who would you even tell? You're the person people go to, not the one they check on.

And maybe you’ve played into it—suppressing your pain, downplaying your needs, convincing everyone (including yourself) that you don’t need help. You’ve become fluent in emotional self-erasure. Every time you feel your chest tighten, your mind scream, your soul ache—you swallow it. Push it down. Smile harder.

Because people love you strong. They love you when you’re calm. When you’re put-together. When you’re fixing things.

They don’t know what to do with your broken pieces.

I remember the exact moment I cracked.

It wasn’t during a catastrophe. It was after a routine call with a friend—another half-hour spent soothing their anxiety, validating their pain, making space. When I hung up, I realized I had been shaking the entire time. My hands, my voice, my thoughts—everything trembled under the pressure I had kept hidden.

And no one knew.

I curled up in bed, pulled the covers over my head, and sobbed like I hadn’t in years. Not the dignified, single-tear kind of crying. The gasping, choking, snot-on-the-pillow kind. The kind of crying that doesn’t ask permission, that forces its way out after months—years—of silence.

That night, I didn’t feel strong. I felt invisible.

Here’s what people don’t realize: being the strong one often means being alone.

You become so good at holding space for others that no one ever offers space for you. Your pain becomes an afterthought—if it’s acknowledged at all. Your “strength” becomes a way for others to avoid their own discomfort. They don’t have to worry about you, because you’re fine. You’re always fine.

Until you’re not.

I started thinking about all the moments I could’ve asked for help and didn’t. All the times I lied and said, “It’s nothing,” when really it was everything. All the nights I stayed up helping someone through a panic attack while my own heart was collapsing inside my chest.

That’s the trap of being the dependable one: you forget how to depend.

And then one day, your body reminds you. The panic attacks come in waves. Your appetite disappears. The world blurs. Tasks feel mountainous. A simple question like “How are you?” becomes impossible to answer honestly. Because the truth would shatter the illusion.

And part of you still wants to be strong for them.

Eventually, I reached out. Not to everyone—just one person I trusted. I said something I’d never said before:

“I’m not okay. I need someone to be strong for me.”

The silence that followed made me regret it instantly. But then she said, “I had no idea. You always look like you’re handling everything.”

That’s the irony. I wasn’t handling anything. I was surviving. Quietly. Invisibly.

But that conversation was the beginning of something different.

Healing didn’t come all at once. It was slow and messy. I had to unlearn the belief that needing help made me weak. I had to resist the urge to apologize for my own pain. I had to remind myself that strength isn’t stoicism—it’s honesty.

Sometimes strength is saying “I can’t do this right now.”

Sometimes it’s choosing rest over obligation.

Sometimes it’s letting people see your cracks.

And the beautiful thing is—the right people will stay. Not because you’re strong, but because you’re real.

So if you’re reading this and you’re the strong one in your world… I see you.

I know the weight you carry. I know how heavy it gets when no one asks how you’re doing. I know the silence, the numbness, the fear of falling apart in a room full of people who depend on you.

But you don’t have to carry it all.

You don’t have to be the rock every single day.

Sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is admit that you’re struggling—and let someone else hold you.

And if no one has said it lately:

You deserve to rest. You deserve care. You deserve to be held.

If you’ve ever felt like the strong one who had to carry too much, know that you’re not alone—and you’re allowed to put the weight down. Thank you for reading.

–Nadeem Shah