Strength is something that we sometimes unknowingly define as a non-negotiable virtue—a virtue that, quite often, becomes an unbearable burden. In all honesty, now when someone calls me strong, I have to resist the urge to cry out loud.
This is not just about me. There is so much performative resilience on social media these days. Whether it relates to health and fitness, mental strength, surviving a divorce, a bad relationship, or navigating a financial crisis—you name it, and there are innumerable accounts telling you how people have thrived in adversity. On one hand, this gives people hope, but on the other, it has subtly made vulnerability look like a sign of weakness.
Courage does not fit into a single box. For some people, crying out takes strength; for others, hiding the tears does. One person may find speaking up to be the ultimate sign of courage, while another finds their strength in ignoring the noise and moving on. For someone, asking for help is an act of bravery, while for another, trying to attempt something all alone is the ultimate test of resolve. By creating rigid definitions of strength and weakness, we are making navigating grief and pain more difficult than it ever was.
If you’ve spent the night in severe paresthesia and pain, vomiting your gut out, or waking up with the inability to move—and you still show up—maybe you don’t want to hear that you’re strong. Maybe staying home and resting it out is the real strength. When I look at myself, it comes naturally to show up anyway: at work, for my daughter, for my workout. The real challenge for me is to take a step back and take a deep breath. What actually looks like weakness to the world is the exact thing I find incredibly challenging.
Then there is the other aspect of it: being put in a box of strength comes as an unwanted weight. It is an assumption that you can manage anything, simply because that’s who you’ve always been. Over time, this constant expectation isolates you, as people stop asking if you need support or a soft place to land. Reclaiming your peace means recognising that taking a pause, letting go, and resting are not signs of giving up—they are essential acts of survival.
Today, I lack even the fragile strength required to finish these words. And so, I choose to find a different kind of courage—the quiet resolve to leave them unfinished.
I no longer know which box this places me in, nor do I care to find out. My only hope is that, like an unexpected wave beneath a tired swimmer, a gentle current finds me and carries me forward. If not today, then tomorrow.
Leave a Reply