The Weight of Being the Strong One

I have been the strong one for as long as I can remember.

The eldest of nine. The one who learned early that my job was to carry the burden, to be steady, to hold everything together, and fix it when things fell apart.

I did not question it. It was just who I was.

The strong one does not crumble. The strong one does not ask for help. The strong one keeps moving when everyone else stops because someone has to. Someone always has to.

And so I carried on.

I carried my siblings through chaos and change. I carried my parents through seasons they could not carry themselves. I carried the weight of keeping peace, keeping order, keeping everyone else from falling.

I carried it all the way into adulthood. Into my marriage. Into motherhood. Into building a business. Into every room I walked into where someone needed something and I was the one who could provide it.

I wore it like an internal badge. Like proof of my worth. If I was needed, I mattered. If I was strong, I belonged.

But here is what no one tells you about being the strong one.

The weight does not disappear just because you are good at carrying it. It accumulates. It settles into your bones. It becomes so familiar you forget it is even there until one day your body screams what your mouth never would.

I am tired. I am SO tired.

There came a point when I could not carry anymore. When the thing I had built my identity around started to crack. When I realized that strength without rest is not strength at all. It is slow erosion.

And I had to ask myself a hard question.

Who am I if I am not the strong one?

The answer terrified me. Because I did not know. I had never given myself permission to find out.

But I am learning now.

I am learning that setting the weight down does not make me weak. It makes me human.

I am learning that asking for help is not failure. It is wisdom.

I am learning that I can be strong and soft at the same time. That I can hold space for others without hollowing myself out. That my worth is not measured by how much I carry but by how fully I live.

If you are the strong one, I see you.

I see the way you show up when no one else does. The way you hold it together when everything is falling apart. The way you have convinced yourself that needing something is a burden you cannot place on anyone else.

But I want you to hear this.

You are allowed to set it down.

You are allowed to be held.

You are allowed to be strong and still need someone to carry you sometimes.

That is not weakness.  That is the bravest kind of strength there is.

Love,

Jasmine