I Don’t Want to Be Called a Strong Woman Anymore

There was a time when being called a “strong woman” felt like a badge of honour.
Now, it feels like a weight I no longer want to carry.

I used to wear it with pride, you know; the title, the praise.
People would look at me, sometimes with pity, sometimes with admiration, and say,
“You’re so strong.”
And I’d nod politely, even smile, because what else could I do?
We’ve been taught that strength is noble. That pain is part of being good.
That women who endure are women worth respecting.

I grew up hearing that phrase often in conversations, in stories, even in prayers.
“God, give her the strength to endure.”
“She’s strong. She’ll get through it.”
“Strong women don’t break.”
And all those other carefully-wrapped, emotionally manipulative sentences.

It sounded comforting at first.
Until I realised it often meant:
“Keep enduring.”
“Keep absorbing.”
“Don’t complain.”
“Don’t be weak.”
“Stay in pain or die slowly but make it look graceful.”

But lately, I’ve started to question it.
What exactly do we mean when we say a woman is strong?

In Nigeria, where I come from, it rarely means she’s bold, brave, or assertive.
It doesn’t mean she’s standing tall, chasing her dreams, or speaking her truth.
Most times, it means she’s been through a lot silently.
(That emphasis is needed because, in the real sense, everyone is going through a lot. But if you dare to speak about it, you’re seen as weak. If you cry out, you’re dramatic. If you ask for support, you’re needy.)

Here, a woman is considered strong when she’s carrying everyone else’s burdens and not asking for help with hers.
When she stays in an unhappy marriage “for the children.”
When she tolerates disrespect “for the sake of peace.”
When she holds her grief in her chest and shows up smiling like nothing is wrong.

She’s strong because she’s endured heartbreaks that would crush the average person.
She’s strong because she’s never raised her voice, even when she should have screamed.
She’s strong because she cries behind closed doors and cooks jollof rice for everyone the next morning.

But what kind of strength is that?

She's called strong not because she’s thriving,
but because she’s surviving.

And I’ve come to realise that there’s a difference.

Somewhere along the line, “strong woman” became code or euphemism for
“ an unhappy woman who doesn’t complain.”
A woman who doesn’t demand better.
A woman who is easy to ignore because she never asks for anything.
A woman who has been taught that her silence is her superpower.

And honestly?
I don’t want that kind of strength, not now not anymore.

I don’t want to be admired for the way I kept quiet when I should have spoken.
I don’t want applause for swallowing sadness.
I don’t want to be celebrated for staying in places that drained me
just because I could “handle it.”
That’s not strength. That’s suffering with makeup on.

Yes, I’ve faced challenges.
Yes, I’ve been stretched emotionally.
Yes, I’ve known pain.

But I’m learning that healing is also strength.
That walking away can be courage.
That setting boundaries is brave.
That softness is not weakness.
That asking for help does not mean I’m failing.

I want to be known as a happy woman.
Not a woman who “carried everything and didn’t break,”
but a woman who chose peace.
A woman who chose joy.
A woman who knew when to put things down.

I want to be seen for who I am not just what I survive.
Not as the woman who endured, but as the woman who evolved.

Because true strength isn’t how much you can take.
It’s knowing when enough is enough.
It’s being able to say, “I deserve better,” and actually believe it.
It’s choosing yourself in a world that tells you you must always be available to others.

I want to rest without guilt.
I want to say “no” without explanation.
I want to choose myself and not feel selfish for it.
I want to cry openly if I need to, and not be called dramatic.
I want my strength to show in how gently I love myself.

Sometimes, I imagine the little girl I used to be; quiet, observant, eager to please.
She was always praised for being “well-behaved.”
But no one asked her if she was okay.
She became the girl who kept secrets, who didn’t want to be a burden.
She learned to carry heavy things too early.
And the world applauded her for it.

Now, I mourn her.
Because she deserved to be held, not hardened.
She deserved to be comforted, not congratulated for her silence.

And so do I.

I want to be called soft.
Safe.
Free.
I want to wake up and not feel like I have to brace myself for the day.
I want a life where I don’t have to survive everything.
I want a world where my strength is not measured by how much pain I can endure.

When did “strong” become another word for exhausted?
When did “strong” start meaning “alone”?
Why is the standard of strength tied to how invisible our suffering can be?

Let’s stop calling women strong only when they’re unhappy and quiet about it.
Let’s stop giving them medals for swallowing grief, pain, and abuse.
Let’s teach our daughters that their softness is not a flaw.
Let’s teach our sons that women deserve support, not just admiration from a distance.

Because true strength isn’t about hiding your pain.
It’s being able to speak your truth—trembling voice and all.
It’s choosing joy, even if it means walking away from everything familiar.
It’s knowing that breaking down doesn’t make you broken.

So no, I don’t want to be called a strong woman anymore; at least not by that definition.
I want to be called free.
Soft. Safe. Whole. Happy.

And if you must speak of my strength,
let it be the kind that healed me,
not the kind that hurt me first.
Let it be the kind that came from choosing myself.
Let it be the kind that made me human again.Start writing...