The Strong One Gets Tired Too
When everyone knows you as the one who handles everything, nobody thinks to ask who's taking care of you..
I think I became “the strong one” when I was ten years old.
My mom passed away, and it broke our family in ways I don't think any of us fully understood at the time. We went to live with our grandparents. My older sister stayed as long as she could, but eventually she moved in with her boyfriend.
My younger sister was still too young to really understand why she left.
Me? I understood.
And somehow, understanding didn't make it hurt any less.
I remember feeling abandoned all over again. First my mom was gone, and then my older sister left too. I know now that she had her own reasons and her own life to figure out.
I've forgiven her.
But forgiveness and forgetting are two very different things.
Some memories don't leave.
Some become part of the way you learn to survive.
And somewhere in all of that grief, I realized something no ten-year-old should have to figure out:
Now I have to be the big sister.
I think that's where my version of “being strong” really began. Not the inspirational kind of strong people put on coffee mugs. The kind where you learn early that people can leave. The kind that makes you hold on tighter to the people you love. The kind that can follow you into adulthood and whisper that maybe you need to handle everything yourself—because what happens if the person you're counting on isn't there tomorrow?
Losing my mom so young affected me in ways I'm still understanding. I believe it's connected to some of the abandonment feelings and mental-health struggles I've carried with me through different parts of my life.
And for the longest time, I thought maybe I was supposed to be “over it” by now.
I'm not.
Not because I haven't grown. Not because I haven't forgiven. Not because I'm choosing to live in the past.
Because it happened to me.
Those memories—good and bad—are part of my story. I can't erase the ten-year-old girl who lost her mom and suddenly realized life wasn't as permanent as she thought it was.
And honestly?
I don't think I want to erase her anymore.
Staying Busy Became My Armor
That little girl went through everything life threw at her—and trust me, it was a lot.
Living with my grandparents was okay. I was loved, but if I'm being truthful, I wasn't happy.
Eventually I started acting out. I ran away and stayed with a friend. Later, I moved in with another friend and helped babysit her children. I babysat, I worked when I wasn't babysitting, and I started earning my own money.
Looking back, I think I was learning something that would follow me well into adulthood:
If I could take care of myself, I wouldn't have to depend on anyone else.
My little sister stayed with my grandparents. She was the baby of the four of us, and from where I stood back then, it seemed like she got to be spoiled and loved in a way I desperately wanted too.
For a long time, that hurt.
But as I've gotten older, I've realized something important: none of that was her fault. She was a child too.
Still, the little girl inside me didn't understand things that way.
She just looked around and wondered:
Why wasn't I enough to be loved like that?
And when you carry that question around long enough, you start finding ways not to hear it.
For me, I stayed busy.
Work. Responsibilities. Taking care of people. Solving problems. Figuring things out.
Because if I'm busy, I don't have time to wonder whether I'm enough.
And if we're being completely real here?
I still do it.
My brain apparently took that childhood coping mechanism, laminated it, filed it under VERY IMPORTANT, and has been using it ever since.
I stay busy.
I work for what I have.
I fight for what I want.
And asking for help? That's a hard one.
Because somewhere along the way, I learned that accepting help could come with strings attached. Someone might remind you later of what they did for you. They might use it against you. They might make you feel like you owe them.
And I never wanted to feel that powerless again.
So, I created my own rule:
Stay busy. Work for everything. Never give anyone the opportunity to hold their help over your head.
That rule protected me for a long time.
But here's the part I'm beginning to understand:
The things we learn to survive aren't always the things we need in order to live.
Independence can be a strength.
Working hard can be a strength.
Being capable can be a strength.
But when you feel like you have to do everything yourself because depending on another person feels dangerous?
That's exhausting.
And eventually, even the strong one gets tired.
So, What Does “Strong” Look Like Now?
Being the strong one as an adult?
Honestly, it looks like a big ball of spaghetti. 😂
I don't have life figured out. Not even close.
I've lived through some of the worst days of my life, and I've also experienced some of the best.
I've fallen harder than anyone should have to fall in one lifetime.
But I've also had beautiful years. Adventures. Love. A family. Belly laughs. Memories I wouldn't trade for anything.
And somehow, after everything life has thrown at me, I'm still here.
I'm happy sometimes. I'm sad sometimes. I'm healthy. I'm anxious. I'm still dealing with my mental health. I'm still growing.
And all of those things can exist at the same time.
For years, I think I believed becoming strong meant eventually reaching some magical version of myself where nothing bothered me anymore.
Plot twist: apparently that's not how this works. 😂
Thoughts still get in the way.
Memories still show up when they weren't invited.
My brain can take one tiny thought and turn it into a full-blown investigative documentary complete with evidence, witnesses, and a dramatic soundtrack.
But I'm learning something different now.
I'm learning that I can hear a thought without letting it control me.
I can acknowledge a memory without moving back into it. Sometimes I can simply say:
I know you're there. But I'm not carrying you today.
And set it down.
Because not every memory needs to be forgotten in order for you to move forward.
Not every wound needs to disappear before you're allowed to be happy.
And not every version of yourself needs to come with you into the next chapter.
Sometimes you have to leave something behind.
Move forward.
Grow.
Become the person you were always meant to be.
Maybe This Is What Being the Strong One Really Means
Maybe being strong isn't doing everything alone.
Maybe it isn't pretending nothing hurts.
Maybe it isn't staying so busy that you never have enough silence to hear yourself think.
Maybe strength is finally being able to look at everything you've survived and say:
“You shaped me. But you don't get to control where I go from here.”
I'm still the strong one.
I'm just learning that the strongest version of me doesn't have to carry everything.
She gets tired.
She asks for help sometimes.
She puts things down.
She protects her peace.
She loves deeply, laughs loudly, overthinks occasionally—okay, frequently 😂—and keeps moving forward.
And maybe that's the whole point.
I don't need to forget the little girl I used to be.
I just need to show her that we made it.
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