I think we misunderstand strength during a crisis.
We praise the person who keeps going.
The one who stays calm.
The one who absorbs the hard news, the logistics, the appointments, the calls, the fear, and the unknown.
We call that person strong.
And maybe they are.
But sometimes “strong” is just the name we give to the person who did not have the luxury of falling apart.
That person may be leading a company. Caring for a spouse. Managing a crisis. Holding a family together. They may be the person everyone looks to for answers, reassurance, and stability.
They may also be the person who has quietly forgotten how to ask for help.
That is the part we often miss.
Because when someone keeps functioning, we assume they are okay. We assume the calm means capacity. We assume the steady voice means peace. We assume the person making the decisions must also be processing the pain.
But functioning is not the same as healing.
Composure is not the same as peace.
Resilience is not the same as recovery.
Sometimes the person who looks the strongest is simply the person who learned there was no space for collapse.
No space to tremble.
No space to say, “I need some help.”
No space to admit that the weight has become heavier than anyone else can see.
In crisis, there is often one person who becomes the container. The one who holds the details. The appointments. The medications. The questions. The updates. The insurance calls. The family emotions. The private fears.
They become the steady one.
The reliable one.
The strong one.
And because they can carry it, they keep taking on more.
But carrying something does not mean it is weightless.
It only means they have learned how to keep moving while holding it.
I think about this often in the context of caregiving, but it reaches far beyond caregiving. It shows up in families. In leadership. In grief. In illness. In businesses. In every room where someone is expected to remain composed while something inside them is quietly coming apart.
Some people are not asking for attention.
They are asking, quietly, to be seen.
To be heard.
To be allowed to unpack a little.
Maybe the better question is not:
“How are you holding up.”
Maybe the better question is:
“Who are you leaning on?”
Because that question assumes something important.
It assumes the strong one should not have to stand alone.
It assumes that needing help does not make a person weak. It makes them human.
Strength and support are not opposites.
And maybe that is where we need to begin.
Not by praising people for how much they can endure in silence.
But by creating enough safety for them to finally set some of the weight down.
This is an excellent post- just what I need right now! I can think of a few people I’d like to send it to, but I don’t know if I have the courage.
Thank you very much for writing it -so well written and it’s so true. I know cause I’m one of those people who holds it together, carries the weight, keeps going….
This is beautifully written!
This resonated deeply with me this morning.. That line "But sometimes “strong” is just the name we give to the person who did not have the luxury of falling apart." is a gut punch in the best way. It’s a necessary challenge to the way we praise resilience without offering the support that makes recovery possible. Powerful writing!
Additionally, that "shift in perspective"—from 'How are you holding up?' to 'Who are you leaning on?'—is a vital reminder that strength shouldn't have to be synonymous with isolation. Thank you for giving words to the weight so many are carrying in silence."