On the quiet fatigue that hides behind resilience
There is a strange kind of exhaustion that never shows on the face. It doesn’t ask for sympathy, doesn’t cry for attention, doesn’t even collapse when it’s overwhelmed. It simply… carries on.
I’ve often wondered about this archetype, we unknowingly inhabit — the strong one. The one who holds the family together during difficult times. The one friends call when they’re falling apart. The one who remembers birthdays, smooths tensions, pays bills on time, shows up without asking, listens without interrupting, absorbs without reacting.
To the world, strength looks like composure, calm, and clarity. But only the strong know the silent cost of always having it together.
You begin to carry others’ weight as if it’s yours. You become the vault for unspoken grief, the anchor for shifting emotions, the lighthouse no one checks on because it’s always supposed to shine. You comfort, you absorb, you endure—and somewhere in that unending performance of strength, your own needs quietly retreat.
It’s not that you’re pretending. It’s that you’ve become so familiar with being reliable, dependable, resilient—that even when you ache, you instinctively say, “I’m okay.”
And sometimes, you are.
But sometimes… you’re not. And you still keep going.
What’s harder to admit is that strength can become a trap. When you’re the one who always says, “Don’t worry about me,” people eventually do just that—they stop worrying. They assume you’ll handle it. That you don’t need checking in on. That your silence means stability, not suppression.
And so the strong one becomes… invisible in their own suffering.
It’s a quiet grief. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just a slow fading of space to be held, instead of always holding others.
But here’s something I’ve come to believe, painfully and beautifully: true strength is not in the unshakable façade—it’s in the courage to be seen trembling.
To say, “I’m tired.”
To whisper, “Can someone else take over today?”
To allow yourself moments of fragility, without shame.
Even oak trees need soft soil to root into. Even the river needs a bed to lean on. And even those who hold space for others need, at times, to be seen without their armour.
This letter is not a call to stop being strong. It’s a call… an invitation to redefine strength—not as endless endurance, but as honest presence. To give yourself permission to be supported. To stop feeling guilty for having needs. To let someone hold your silence without needing to fix it.
Because the soul does not thrive on performance. It heals in the presence of safe, mutual truth.
And perhaps the most healing sentence one can ever hear is,
“You don’t always have to be the strong one.”
Let that be your breath today. Let that be enough.
Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar
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