The Cost of Being the Strong One

You’re the strong one, huh?

You’re the one who doesn’t cry at funerals. The one who answers the phone at 1:32AM. The one who drives across state lines on no sleep because someone needed help moving a couch, or a body, or their entire fucking life. You’re the one people come to when their world’s on fire—because they know you’ll walk through it.

Not flinch.

Not fall apart.

Just walk.

And sure, you’ll do it. You have done it. Every time. But here’s what they don’t see:

The ashes on your skin aren’t from their fire anymore. They’re from your own.

You’ve burned yourself down to keep other people warm.

And now? You’re just… smoke.

There’s a myth about strong people—that we’re “built for this.” That we like holding the weight. That we don’t needhelp. That our silence means peace. That our stability is natural, not practiced. That we’re immune to loneliness because we always know what to say.

Bullshit.

We’re just really fucking good at hiding the cracks. We don’t reach out because we learned long ago that no one wants to hold our mess. We make jokes instead of confessions. We nod instead of crying. We write blogs instead of calling someone and saying, “Please, I’m not okay.”

We curate “resilient.”

We cosplay “unshakable.”

But we’re not iron.

We’re just tired.

Nobody talks about what it costs to be the one people lean on.

It costs your softness.
It costs your transparency.
It costs your ability to ask for help without it sounding like a punchline.

It’s hard to say “I’m struggling” when your entire identity is built around not struggling. It’s hard to say “I need you”when you’re the one who taught everyone else how not to need anyone.

It’s fucking lonely.

Because here’s the thing: when you’re the strong one, people stop checking in. They assume you’re good. They assume you’re grounded. They assume your silence is stoicism—not suffocation. You don’t get casseroles. You don’t get GoFundMes. You don’t get emergency hugs or unsolicited texts that say, “Just thinking about you.”

You get respect.

Admiration.

Distance.

You become a symbol. A fortress. A goddamn support beam.

And support beams don’t get to collapse.

They just rot—quietly, internally—until one day, the whole building caves in.

You want to know what strength really looks like?

It’s not bench pressing a crisis.

It’s not clenching your jaw through another fucking eulogy.

It’s texting a friend “Can I talk to you?” and not apologizing for the inconvenience.

It’s saying “No, I’m not okay.”
“Yes, I need help.”
“I don’t want to be strong today.”

It’s allowing softness without shame.
Need without explanation.
Grief without detachment.

Because strength isn’t suppression.

It’s survival.

It’s still being here when the world has tried to kill every soft part of you.

You’re not the therapist.
You’re not the priest.
You’re not the punchline.
You’re not the fucking stoic hero of someone else’s trauma narrative.

You’re just a person.

And you get to be held, too.