“I’m Tired of Being the Strong One”
“Everyone counts on me. I’m the one who keeps it together, who shows up, who doesn’t fall apart. I’ve done it for so long that I don’t think people even see me anymore—they just see what I can do for them. I’m exhausted. But I don’t know how to stop, because if I put it down, I’m afraid everything will fall apart.”
Dear Cameron,
That sentence—I’m tired of being the strong one—carries more weight than it seems at first glance. Not because of how loud it is, but because of how long you’ve been carrying it. Not screamed, not shouted—just finally whispered aloud, after years of holding everyone else up.
And I want to begin by saying this plainly: strength is beautiful. But no one is meant to live inside it all the time. Especially not alone.
You didn’t choose this role because you thought it would be glamorous. You didn’t wake up one day and decide to become the reliable one, the steady one, the one who anticipates needs, who fixes the crisis, who swallows their own pain so others don’t have to. That wasn’t a conscious choice. It was a survival strategy. A way to stay connected, to earn love, to manage the instability around you. It became part of your identity not because it felt good—but because it felt necessary.
For many people, this pattern starts early. In homes where the emotional environment was chaotic, unpredictable, or quietly neglectful, children often become emotional adults before their time. This is what we call parentification—when a child is asked, directly or indirectly, to take on roles they were never meant to carry. To be the peacemaker. The confidant. The emotional anchor. The one who keeps things calm or keeps things moving.
And over time, that early training becomes a personality. You become someone who knows how to show up. Who reads the room before you enter it. Who feels responsible for other people’s wellbeing. Who doesn't know how to rest because rest feels like neglecting someone. Who is afraid to fall apart because no one has ever really said, You don’t have to hold it all.
So here you are—exhausted, accomplished, admired, and invisible.
Because being “the strong one” often comes with a cost: you get praised for what you endure, not tended to for what you feel. You become a role, not a person. And when you try to express your needs—if you even know what they are—you’re met with confusion, deflection, or sometimes disappointment. Because the people around you have learned to rely on your strength like it’s infinite. Like it’s not costing you anything. Like it’s who you are, instead of what you’ve been performing.
That performance becomes so convincing that even you forget it’s a role.
But beneath that role is a very real person. One who gets scared. One who needs care. One who doesn’t want to have to carry everything anymore. And that person deserves attention—not only in crisis, but in everyday softness. In ordinary tenderness. In being asked, How are you, really? and not having to translate the answer into something someone else can handle.
The problem is, when you’ve been the strong one for so long, even receiving care can feel threatening. It can feel awkward. Exposed. Vulnerable in a way that’s unfamiliar, and even shameful. Because your strength has become your currency—your way of staying connected, needed, valued. And putting it down can feel like losing your place in the system.
But let me tell you something tender and true: being strong is not your only value.
You are allowed to be tired. You are allowed to say no. You are allowed to be messy, inconsistent, unsure. You are allowed to let the dishes sit in the sink. To say, I can’t right now. To disappoint someone, even someone you love, because your own soul needs a moment to exhale.
And more than anything, you are allowed to reintroduce yourself to the parts of you that never got to just be. The playful part. The tender part. The part that didn’t have to anticipate everyone else’s emotions before they entered a room.
Because that version of you still exists. They’re not gone. They’ve just been waiting. Waiting for you to stop performing long enough to come home to yourself.
Of course it’s terrifying. If you stop being the strong one, what happens to your relationships? Your sense of purpose? Your own reflection?
The answer is: maybe they shift. Maybe some relationships built on your service will falter when you ask for reciprocity. And that will hurt. But it will also reveal something crucial: who sees you as a person, and who only sees you as a function.
And the relationships that survive—that soften when you soften, that listen when you speak from the heart instead of from duty—those are the ones worth building a new kind of life around. One where strength doesn’t mean solitude. Where you’re allowed to rest without apology. Where love includes mutual holding, not silent endurance.
Let yourself be someone other than the strong one.
Let yourself unravel in safe company.
Let yourself feel everything you’ve been holding for others—without rushing to fix it, explain it, or turn it into something useful.
You don’t have to earn softness by breaking first.
You are already worthy of rest.
–RJ