Being Strong Is So Overrated
In a faster, scarier and meaner world than ever, the old concept of “strong” needs a proper burial
I was raised being told how strong I was.
Surviving in a single (dysfunctional) parent household, excelling at my studies and sports, attending world class universities and working world class jobs, raising a world class family in a world class home, all in and around a plethora of chaos, crisis and demand too traumatizing to recount — that, it seemed, epitomized “strong”.
“You’re so strong!” people would always say. Someone even introspectively pointed out once that my first name is a Gaelic word that means strength. To make matters worse, my second name (“Gabriel”) means “divine strength”.
That sealed the deal; it seemed being “strong” was in the cards. The universe had ordained and commissioned this apparent strength by a casual choice of cool names that my soon-to-be divorced parents disagreed on.
Me? I didn’t feel strong. I just felt extremely patient. Tolerant. Stoic. Resilient. Both ashamed of failure yet grateful to God for somehow supplying me with something even I didn’t understand.
I always referred to it as grace, back in my “strong” days, since I had no better explanation; I admit I was equally amazed at a few things I had survived that didn’t manage to kill me in the process, and that — without flinch and without flutter — I mindlessly, even gracefully, seemed to glide through like a scene from Balanchine’s “The Angels” by the celestial 9–10 year olds in the New York City Ballet.
“What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger!” the crowds would cheer. And I bought in, not realizing that the strength they were praising was actually pride, and I needed a serious wake-up call. The more pain you are in over time, the more you get used to, and the less things “hurt”; so unknowingly, I was dealing with more, feeling less pain, and assuming I could handle it.
Strong? No so much. Instead, my gauge of strength was how much crap I could deflect without flinching, without complaining, and without letting anyone else know I was breaking.
I also felt afraid, unworthy and insecure. Strong was a facade. I was really hoping to be saved somehow.
Superman, though, generally doesn’t come to rescue overworked moms who still believe in miracles. It came as a surprise to me (but yet totally logical) that chronic illness soon entered the picture, gutting my foundation and leaving me like an empty vessel floating with no oar, and no way to paddle, down the white rapids of need, dependency and pain.
Life became a blur. Still, for a while, I pretended to be OK, kept food on the table, lunches in the backpacks and my professional life impeccably executed, all while the sense of empty grew emptier.
You might think “empty” is just that: caput, you’re done, there’s no more. But I assure you, the first inkling of “empty” is not the end, but a powerful warning sign to cease fire and do an about face. I didn’t. Instead, I kept charging into battle with no armor and less and less ammo.
Truth be told, I was chronically ill long before I first went to the doctor, and I needed help at home long before I asked for it. But strong people do not ask for help, they give it; at least, the stupid ones do.
As many of us have experienced, pandemics, global uncertainty, global warming, global anxiety and global plenty more contributed to — or rather stole from — that empty pot. Piled high like a precarious game of Jenga, the unsteady pieces challenged the foundation, the very idea, that I used to call “strong”.
I let go. I gave in. I stopped using my superwoman bracelets to deflect bullets, put an end to cleaning up others’ messes and protecting people who didn’t deserve it.
When I arose and noticed the rubble around me, I wondered why I had waited so long to let it all cave in.
I also wondered if I was too far down the hole to ever get out.
Being strong was a facade. It may have done me in, had I not recognized in time that it was a Liar. “In time” is key, because the sooner you see “strong” for what it really isn’t, the less catching up you will have to do.
Strength doesn’t come from achieving, aspiring and doing; strength comes from honesty, most especially when we are vulnerable, hurting, afraid and ill.
Strength comes from taking the time to know yourself and to ask for help.
Strength is admitting to the world that you can’t compete in the Olympics even though you’ve trained your butt off every day for decades (and a lot of people are waiting on the sidelines to become an Instagram hit because of your success).
Strength is desperately loving but distancing yourself from a Royal Family — even if it’s your family! — because you finally realize that they just don’t see your pain. You embrace “getting on with it” as never before, work on forging a healthier future for your children, and hope someday for the tide to turn.
Admitting weakness? Having to let people down through no fault of your own? Recognizing your limits? Saying “no” out of respect for yourself? Now that is strong.
This certainly doesn’t imply a carte blanche to become selfish and to quit helping others and to stop trying to save the world; quite the contrary. It is a clarion call to realize that strength, like a bank account, is supplied in finite amounts.
Like hope or cash in our wallet, strength isn’t something we should give away, but rather, wisely spend.
When all is said and done, nobody really cares how strong you think you are, but how much you inspire them. This isn’t Kansas anymore. The idyllic cities of old with their inspirational mottos and simple humanity would faint at a peek into the times we are navigating.
Many of us are facing heroic battles daily that would humble the most decorated war hero. Honesty is the greatest inspiration and the highest, most enlightened form of strength, and extending that to others is an act of mercy, humility and respect.