I’ve become fluent in the language of “I’m fine.” These words slip from my lips with practiced ease, a well-rehearsed line in the play I perform each day. My smile is perfectly curved, my voice steady, my eyes bright enough to convince anyone who looks too closely. I’ve mastered the art of appearing whole when I’m anything but.
Sometimes I wonder when I became so good at hiding. Perhaps it was during those quiet moments when I learned that vulnerability was seen as weakness, or maybe it was in the countless instances where I watched others turn away from raw emotions, uncomfortable with the reality of pain. Whatever the reason, I built my walls brick by brick, each one carefully placed to keep the world from seeing the storms that rage within.
In the daylight, I am unshakeable. I am the friend who always has it together, the shoulder others lean on, the one who makes everything look effortless. I wear my strength like armor, polished and gleaming, reflecting everyone’s needs but my own. I’ve convinced myself that this is what it means to be strong — to carry everything without buckling, to smile through the weight, to never let the cracks show.
But nights tell a different story. When the world grows quiet and the masks can finally slip, I feel the weight of every “I’m fine” I’ve ever spoken. In these dark hours, my carefully constructed facade crumbles, and I allow myself to feel everything I’ve pushed aside. The tears come silently, soaking into my pillow, carrying with them the words I wish I could say: “I’m not okay. I’m tired. I’m scared. I need help.”
It’s strange how we measure strength in our ability to carry burdens alone, as if reaching out somehow diminishes our resilience. We praise those who weather storms in silence, yet fail to see the courage it takes to admit when we’re drowning. I’ve spent so long believing that needing others was a sign of weakness that I forgot what real strength looks like.
The truth is, vulnerability terrifies me. The thought of letting others see beneath my carefully constructed surface feels like standing naked in a crowd. What if they see my brokenness and turn away? What if my pain makes them uncomfortable? What if my need for support becomes a burden they’re unwilling to bear? These fears have kept me locked in my fortress of “fine” for so long.
But lately, I’ve been questioning this definition of strength. I watch as others share their struggles, their voices trembling but determined, and I see no weakness in their vulnerability. Instead, I witness a different kind of power — the courage to be seen, truly seen, with all their beautiful imperfections. Their honesty doesn’t diminish them; it makes them more human, more real, more connected.
Perhaps true strength isn’t found in how well we can hide our struggles, but in how brave we are in sharing them. Maybe it’s not about being unbreakable, but about having the courage to break open and let the light in. What if our capacity to feel deeply, to hurt profoundly, to need intensely, isn’t our weakness but our greatest strength?
I’m learning, slowly and sometimes painfully, that it’s okay to not be okay. That admitting we’re struggling isn’t admitting defeat — it’s claiming our humanity. That asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness but an act of tremendous courage. That being real, even when it’s messy and uncomfortable, is infinitely more powerful than being perfectly composed.
So here I am, taking my first trembling steps toward authenticity. I’m learning to let my guard down, to speak my truth even when my voice shakes, to reach out when the weight becomes too heavy. I’m discovering that strength isn’t about never falling — it’s about having the courage to fall apart and trust that we’ll find our way back together.
Because maybe, just maybe, we were never meant to be okay all the time. Maybe our broken pieces, when shared with others, create something more beautiful than our pretense of perfection ever could. And perhaps in admitting we’re not okay, we finally give ourselves permission to be exactly who we are — beautifully imperfect, gloriously human, and perfectly not okay.
— –
Someone learning that strength lies not in the walls we build, but in the courage to let them fall.