I’m Not Okay — I Just Look Like I Am

I’m done.

No formal goodbye. No soft sendoff. No thank-you-for-your-service. This isn’t a break. It’s a breakup. You don’t get to keep holding the pen that writes my story. I’m reclaiming it — ink-stained fingers, messy margins, and all.

For too long, I’ve carried the crushing weight of being “the strong one.” The dependable one. The one who holds it all together when everything’s falling apart. The one who never flinches, never complains, never cries in public. The one who smiles through the ache and says, “I’m fine,” even when she’s barely breathing.

You taught me to armor up, to swallow pain like it was medicine. To laugh when I felt hollow. To show up when I was running on fumes. And worst of all, you taught me that vulnerability was a flaw — that softness was weakness. That needing people meant I wasn’t enough.

Well, I’m calling it: I’ve had enough.

Strength isn’t silence. It’s not suppression. It’s not the ability to fake a smile while dying inside. And it’s certainly not the twisted pride in being the last one to ask for help. I’ve been applauded for being “so strong,” but no one saw the price I paid behind closed doors.

Do you know how many nights I’ve cried in the shower because it was the only place no one could hear me? How many times I’ve bitten my tongue just to keep the peace, or forced a smile while my heart was breaking? How often I’ve said, “Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” when I was already on the verge of collapse?

You made me believe that holding everything in made me resilient — but all it did was make me numb. I’ve become a master of composure, a pro at pretending. But behind the mask, I was unraveling. Quietly. Invisibly. Alone.

I wore the “strong woman” title like a crown, but it was a cage. And somewhere along the way, I forgot what it felt like to simply be… human.

And God, I miss being human.

I miss being able to say, “I’m not okay,” without guilt. To cry without apology. To let someone else carry the weight for a while without feeling like a burden. I miss the freedom of honesty — the kind that doesn't require me to justify or explain my pain away.

So here it is — my official resignation from the role of the one who always has it together.

From now on, I will allow myself to feel. To break. To heal. I will cry when I need to, not when it’s convenient. I’ll ask for help without shame. I’ll let people in — not because I’m weak, but because connection is part of being alive. Because there is strength in showing up as my full, unfiltered self.

And no, I don’t care if it makes people uncomfortable. I’m not here to be their rock at the cost of my own spirit. I’m not here to perform. I’m here to live. Fully. Truthfully. Softly.

I know you’ll try to sneak back in. When life gets heavy, when expectations start piling up, when I find myself slipping into old patterns — I’ll hear you whisper, “Be strong.” But this time, I’ll have an answer.

I’ll whisper back, “Being soft is strong, too.”

I won’t break myself to hold others up anymore. I won’t abandon my needs just to keep the peace. I won’t hide my heart to maintain the illusion.

I’m giving myself permission to be real. Messy. Emotional. Vulnerable. Because that’s where the healing is. That’s where the truth lives. That’s where I live.

So thank you, Strength. You got me through the storm. You helped me survive. But I’m not here just to survive anymore.

I’m here to feel. To connect. To breathe deeply and live loudly. And that means letting go of the version of me who was always “fine,” even when she wasn’t.

This is me, choosing softness. Choosing truth. Choosing me.

Sincerely,

Me