Today, you are known as the strong friend. The reliable one. The person who does not panic, does not fall apart, and does not take up too much space. Today, your strength is what people see first. You are the one people call when something breaks, when plans fail, or when they need someone steady enough to hold everything together.
You listen longer than anyone else, remember details no one asked you to, and fix problems that aren’t yours. You laugh when it’s unexpected, offer advice when it’s needed, and show up for everyone, even when inside, you feel completely empty. No one ever asks if you need help, because you have learned to be fine on your own.
But after all, who checks on the one everyone calls strong?
Over time, being strong stops feeling like a choice and starts feeling like a role you cannot escape. You are assumed to be okay because “you always are.” When someone finally asks how you are, you quickly answer that you’re fine when you’re not—and the conversation moves on, just like it always does.
To them, you are remembered as composed, dependable—someone whose presence steadies the room. They speak of you with certainty, as if you were made of something permanent, as if nothing unsettles you. In their memory, you are calm without effort, and strong without cost. They trust this version of you because it has never failed them.
What they never witness is what you keep—the emotions you take in, the weight that you hold…there is no visible fracture, only something heavy settling beneath your flesh.
You move through conversations as if nothing weighs on you. You nod, reassure, and remain present. Inside, you are measuring and calculating how much more you can handle without asking to be truly seen. Strength has taught you how to endure, but not how to be cared for.
There are moments when you almost speak up, where the words sit right at the edge of your mouth, heavy and impatient. But you swallow them back because you’ve learned how the room shifts when you stop being the reliable one. You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. You don’t want to be a problem. So you learn how to talk about pain—but only in your head—where no one has to hear the pain.
You tell yourself that this is just what being capable looks like. That everyone carries something, but yours just happens to be quieter. You minimize it so well that even you start to doubt its pressure, convincing yourself that needing less is a kind of maturity. Still, the silence drains you. It demands patience you are slowly running out of.
And so you ration yourself carefully. You give energy in deliberate amounts, kindness with control, and stay present without ever telling the full truth. You become skilled at being there for them without being vulnerable. It keeps you functional, admired—even—but always slightly distant from the care you offer so freely.
At the end of the day, you carry yourself home with a tiredness that does not demand attention.
You are not dramatic.
You are not fragile.
You are simply human, performing strength so well that it becomes invisible.
