I Got Tired of Being the Strong One All the Time
There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from work.
It comes from holding it together for everyone else.
You know the one.
The kind where you sit in your car after doing all the right things—
being the one who shows up, stays calm, keeps peace, handles it—
and you feel completely, utterly gone.
That kind of tired lives in the bones.
I got tired of being the strong one.
Not because I’m not strong.
But because being strong became a performance.
A default.
A mask with a permanent smile.
I was the one people came to—but didn’t ask about.
The one who was calm in chaos—but screaming inside.
The one who gave grace to everyone—except herself.
And I started to ask:
Is this strength? Or is this self-abandonment in a nice outfit?
The answer came in a whisper.
From my body.
From the part of me that still remembers how to hear the truth.
It said:
“You don’t have to hold it all to be loved.”
And then I cried.
Not the pretty cry.
The deep, cracked-open, this-has-been-waiting cry.
And something shifted.
Since then, I’ve started letting things fall.
I’ve let people down.
I’ve not texted back.
I’ve cried mid-conversation and said, “I don’t have it today.”
I’ve chosen myself over being impressive.
I’ve let the mask come off.
Not for drama.
For relief.
My ancestors? They didn’t always get that choice.
They held it all until it killed them.
So when I rest now—when I stop holding the whole damn family tree on my back—
I do it for them, too.
“I am my ancestors’ wildest boundaries.”
If you’re tired, too—
Not the kind of tired that a nap will fix,
but the kind of tired that comes from living like your needs are an inconvenience—
I want you to know:
You’re allowed to put it down.
The cape. The smile. The performance.
You’re allowed to fall apart.
You’re allowed to not be okay.
You are not loved because you’re strong.
You are loved because you are you.
And if no one ever told you that before—
I am now.
Rest, love.
The world can hold itself for a while.
—
Dee
(In your corner, always.)