The Problem with Being ‘Strong’: Why It’s Okay to Fall Apart Sometimes

People throw the word “strong” around quite a lot. When someone is going through something unimaginable, we call them strong. When a parent battles illness or a child steps up to help in ways they never thought they’d need to, we praise their strength. It’s a nice sentiment, but there’s something about it that feels… heavy.

When my mum was ill, people always said, “You’re so strong,” or “You’re handling this so well.” I’d nod and thank them, but inside, it felt like a lie. Strength wasn’t what I felt most days. I felt tired. I felt scared. And sometimes, I felt nothing at all—just numbness, as if my brain had decided to put everything on pause because it couldn’t handle another ounce of reality.

The truth is, strength is a complicated thing. It’s not about never breaking. It’s about what you do after you break.

The Weight of ‘Strength’

There’s an unspoken expectation that comes with being called strong. It’s as if you’ve been handed a badge you didn’t ask for, one that tells the world, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” But what happens when you don’t? What happens on the days when holding it together feels impossible?

When my mum was in and out of treatment, I’d have moments where I just couldn’t face it. I’d hide in my room, cry into a pillow, or stare at the ceiling, feeling like a failure because I wasn’t the “strong” person everyone thought I was. Now, looking back, I realise that falling apart wasn’t a failure—it was necessary.

Why Falling Apart Matters

Here’s the thing no one tells you: falling apart is part of the process. It’s not a sign of weakness; it’s a release. It’s your body and mind saying, This is too much to hold all at once, so let me put it down for a while.

I vividly remember one time when this happened to me, during one of my mum’s tougher treatments. I’d been holding everything in for weeks, trying to be the “strong” one everyone kept insisting I was. Then, out of nowhere, it all hit me. I crumpled onto my bedroom floor, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t dignified, but it was real. No matter how high I held my head on the good days, I was still just a young lad who was scared that his mum was dying, and sometimes that looks exactly how you’d imagine. The thing is, afterwards, I felt lighter. Not fixed, not whole, but lighter—like I could carry on. Mum would always say “Sometimes the best thing to do is just have a good cry.”

Strength Isn’t What We Think It Is

We’ve been sold this idea that strength looks like stoicism, like powering through without flinching. But that’s not strength—that’s a mask. True strength is messy. It’s crying when you need to. It’s admitting that you’re scared, or lost, or completely overwhelmed. It’s letting someone else take the load for a while because you can’t do it alone.

My mum taught me that. Even in her hardest moments, she wasn’t afraid to let us see her cry. She wasn’t afraid to say, “This is hard, and I’m struggling.” She showed me that being vulnerable doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human.

How to Let Yourself Fall Apart (And Why You Should)

If you’re holding onto too much right now, here’s what I want you to know: it’s okay to let go. You don’t have to be “strong” all the time. You don’t have to pretend everything’s fine.

Here are a few things that helped me:

1.Give Yourself Permission. Tell yourself it’s okay to not be okay. Say it out loud if you need to.

2.Find Your Release. Maybe it’s crying, journaling, screaming into a pillow, or going for a long walk where no one can find you. Whatever it is, let it out.

3.Lean on Someone. Call a friend, a family member, or someone who’s been through it. Let them carry a bit of the load with you.

4.Take It Slow. Falling apart isn’t about fixing everything in one go. It’s about making space for the emotions so you can move forward, one small step at a time.

The Strength in Letting Go

Falling apart isn’t something to fear or avoid. It’s part of the process. It’s how we make room for the things we can’t carry anymore. And when we let ourselves feel the weight of it all—when we let it out instead of locking it in—we find that we’re stronger than we thought. Not because we never break, but because we find a way to keep going after we do.

So, if you’re reading this and feeling like you’re not “strong enough,” I want you to know that you already are. Strength isn’t about never falling—it’s about what you do when you get back up. And getting back up doesn’t have to happen all at once. One small step is enough.

And if today all you can do is sit with your feelings, that’s enough too. Sometimes, that’s where real strength begins.