💔 The Praise That Hurt
I learned early that strength wasn’t a choice—it was a requirement.
Strength meant being quiet in pain.
It meant pushing through flare-ups, panic attacks, grief, guilt, and invisible wounds with a smile.
People called it resilience.
But what it really was… was survival.
Masking. Enduring. Collapsing in private just to hold it together in public.
Smiling so I wouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable.
Breaking down in the bathroom, then washing my face and going back to work like nothing happened.
No one asked how I was really doing.
They were just glad I wasn’t making them feel awkward.
🩶 The Toll of Being the “Strong One”
Being the strong one means you’re expected to keep going.
Even when you're in pain. Even when you're falling apart.
Your silence is mistaken for stability.
People stop checking on you.
They assume you don’t need help.
They don’t ask, “Are you okay?” because they’ve decided you always are.
But I wasn’t strong.
I was exhausted.
I was scared.
I was dissociating.
And I was very, very good at pretending.
My body started to scream in ways I couldn’t ignore—because I kept ignoring the whispers.
The breakdown wasn’t sudden. It was slow, built brick by brick, by years of being “the dependable one.”
🌿 What Strength Means to Me Now
These days, I have a new definition of strength.
Strength is canceling plans and not feeling guilty.
It’s saying no even when my people-pleasing reflex flinches.
It’s taking the medication.
It’s asking for help.
It’s admitting I’m tired. Or overwhelmed. Or just done.
Strength is not dragging myself across the finish line to prove something.
It’s refusing to run at all if the cost is my health, my peace, or my truth.
Strength is doing less—and meaning it.
It’s learning how to rest without apology.
It’s telling the truth, even if my voice shakes.
Because the strongest thing I’ve ever done…
is let myself stop pretending.
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💌 Letter to the Reader
Dear “strong one,”
If you’ve ever been praised for holding it together, I hope you know this:
You don’t have to be the reliable one.
The stable one. The one who never needs anything.
That’s not strength. That’s conditioning.
Your worth is not tied to your ability to endure.
You don’t have to keep proving how much you can take.
You are allowed to fall apart.
You are allowed to ask for softness.
You are allowed to rest.
You are already enough—even when you're not performing strength for the comfort of others.
And if you’re healing right now?
That’s not weakness.
That’s courage.
Unfiltered. Raw. Me.
~Cassandra