Why I’ve Stopped Being the “Strong One” (And Why You Should Too)

I’ll never forget the day when I finally allowed myself to break down. It started like so many other mornings—waking up tired, the kind of tired that makes you wish you could hit reset before the day even starts. My boys were giving me a hard time about naptime, and I was already hanging by a thread. I had jumped out of bed that morning without centering myself, rushing into the chaos of the day, hoping to just make it through. But by the time nap rolled around, I was desperate for a moment to breathe, to reset, to pull myself together.

Photo by Claudia Wolff on Unsplash

I did all the things—patting, rubbing backs, singing softly—waiting for them to doze off. But they weren’t having it. Every few minutes, another whine, another wiggle, another frustrated sigh from me. The resistance felt like a wall I couldn’t climb over. And in that moment, I broke. Tears streamed down my face as I sat there next to my youngest son, feeling completely overstimulated and overwhelmed.

I know they’re just kids. I know they weren’t trying to test me. But that didn’t make the moment any easier. I felt so raw, so human.

For years, I’ve been the “strong friend,” the one who holds it all together for everyone else. I thought strength meant swallowing my feelings, staying calm no matter what, and carrying all the weight on my own shoulders. But over time, that “strength” started to crack. I found myself getting more sensitive to the little things—words, looks, moments of resistance like this one. And instead of bottling it up, I decided to do something different: I let it out.

I cried.

It wasn’t easy at first. Vulnerability never is. It’s hard to admit that something is too much, especially when you’ve built an identity around being the one who can handle anything. But I’ve learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness—it’s humanity.

That day, after wiping my tears and finally stepping away from naptime, I texted my husband at work how I was feeling. I didn’t sugarcoat it or bury it under “I’m fine.” I let him know that I was exhausted, overstimulated, and just plain overwhelmed. And you know what? It felt freeing.

Now, I make it a point to let my family see that side of me. I’ll tell my husband if something is bothering me instead of brushing it off. I’ll cry in front of my kids if the day feels like too much. Not because I want them to feel guilty or burdened, but because I want them to know that I’m human too. I don’t want them to grow up thinking their mom is a robot who never breaks down or feels pain.

It’s taken me years to get here—to accept that tears aren’t a sign of weakness, but a release, an expression of what it means to be alive. And every time I let myself feel and process my emotions, I feel better. Stronger. More whole.

If you’re holding back your emotions, I encourage you to try something different.