Written July 2022, Copenhagen, Denmark
We live in a world that romanticizes resilience. When someone endures pain, hardship, or tragedy, we often rush to label them “strong.” It’s meant as a compliment—a recognition of their ability to persevere. But strength, as we often define it, isn’t something anyone actively chooses. It’s a reaction to circumstances, a survival mechanism forged in the face of adversity. Is this really something to celebrate? And more importantly, does the label of “strength” help or harm those who are simply trying to make it through the day?
The Weight of Being Labeled Strong
Being called strong might seem empowering at first glance, but for many, it’s an invisible burden. When we label someone as strong, we unintentionally impose an expectation: to keep it together, to not show weakness, to live up to the image we’ve constructed for them. This label can feel isolating, forcing people to suppress their emotions and mask their vulnerability out of fear that crumbling would disappoint those who see them as a pillar of strength.
I remember a time in my life when I was living through what felt like a never-ending storm. From the outside, I seemed unshakable. I had built a wall so tall and sturdy that no one could see the cracks. But that wall wasn’t strength—it was survival. It was my way of keeping the world at bay while I fought to stay afloat. Every time someone told me, “You’re so strong,” I felt like I had to live up to that perception, even as I crumbled inside. What I really needed to hear wasn’t, “You’re strong,” but, “You don’t have to be strong with me.”
The Double-Edged Sword of Trauma
Society often tells us that trauma makes us stronger. We see it in books, movies, and inspirational quotes: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” While it’s true that some people find growth and resilience in the aftermath of trauma, it’s far from a universal experience. Trauma isn’t a gift; it’s a wound. And like any wound, it can leave scars—visible or invisible—that take a lifetime to heal.
Yes, trauma can be a catalyst for self-discovery. It can teach us hard lessons about ourselves and the world, force us to reassess our priorities, or help us grow in ways we never imagined. But it can also do the opposite. Trauma can make us more sensitive, more fearful, or more disconnected from ourselves and others. It can leave us paralyzed, stuck in cycles of pain that are difficult to break. Sometimes, trauma is just trauma—raw, messy, and devoid of any silver lining.
The narrative that trauma inherently leads to strength or wisdom risks minimizing the very real pain it causes. It also creates a harmful expectation: if you haven’t emerged stronger, have you failed in some way? The truth is, there’s no right or wrong way to navigate trauma. Growth isn’t inevitable, and strength isn’t the only valid outcome.
Rewriting the Narrative of Strength
So, how do we redefine strength in a way that honors both the pain of trauma and the humanity of those who endure it? True strength isn’t about being unbreakable or stoic. It’s about being authentic. It’s about allowing yourself to feel, to struggle, and to ask for help when you need it.
When someone is going through a hard time, we should rethink the words we use to support them. Instead of praising their strength, consider acknowledging their fragility and courage. Say things like:
- “You don’t have to go through this alone.”
- “It’s okay to not be okay.”
- “I’m here for you, no matter what.”
These words create space for vulnerability. They remind people that they’re allowed to fall apart and that their worth isn’t tied to how well they hold themselves together.
Honoring My Vulnerability
I only began to understand what true strength looked like when I let myself crumble. Diving into the darkest corners of my pain wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. In those moments, I realized that the walls I’d built to protect myself weren’t as strong as they seemed. They were brittle and hollow, and I was hiding behind them, not thriving.
My journey toward healing taught me that strength isn’t about endurance; it’s about compassion—especially self-compassion. I became strong when I stopped punishing myself for feeling weak. I became strong when I allowed myself to be cared for, to lean on others instead of carrying everything alone. I became strong when I started honoring my fragility instead of resenting it.
Trauma didn’t make me stronger. I made myself stronger. And that distinction matters.
Fragility Is Not Weakness
If you’ve been through something that left you shattered, it should never have happened. You didn’t need to endure pain to prove your worth. What you deserve is recognition for simply being here—for surviving, for continuing to breathe and take steps forward, even when the ground beneath you feels unsteady.
Strength isn’t the absence of fragility. Strength is found in allowing yourself to be human—in embracing your vulnerability, your imperfections, and your need for connection. So, let’s stop glorifying the pain that forces people to build walls. Let’s start celebrating the courage it takes to tear those walls down.
You don’t owe anyone strength. You only owe yourself the kindness to heal, however messy and fragile that process may be.
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