What My Mother Didn’t Tell Me About Strength
My mother taught me to work hard, to speak up, to stand tall.
She taught me to hold my chin high when others tried to bend my neck.
She taught me to pray with the kind of faith that fills a room.
But she never told me about the heaviness that comes with being strong.
She never told me that some people will mistake your resilience for an invitation to pile more weight on your back. That they will come to you, not because they truly see you, but because they see what you can carry for them. She never told me that some will resent your strength even as they depend on it.
And she certainly never told me that strength can be lonely.
I have learned that true strength is not just about what you can endure—it’s about knowing when to put the load down. It’s about choosing rest without apology. It’s about allowing someone else to carry you for a while without feeling like you’ve failed.
Strength, I’ve discovered, isn’t always in the clenching of your jaw or the tightening of your fist.
It is in the softness you dare to keep.
It is in the tears you allow to fall.
It is in the quiet, stubborn refusal to be turned into stone.
My mother gave me the gift of her example.
Life gave me the rest.
And now, I know that my strength is not measured by how much I can carry alone—it’s measured by how willing I am to remain human while I carry it.
