Somewhere safe to fall.

But what about the “strong” one?

The one who is somehow holding everyone around her up while barely holding on herself.

The one who could be described as a light—the light so many look for when they find themselves lost in the darkness.

But where is her light?

Who does she look for when the darkness becomes too much?

The one people come to again and again, taking pieces of her comfort, her love, her strength, her reassurance—until sometimes, all that is left of her are fragments.

The strong one is often overlooked.

The strong one is more often than not taken for granted, as if her emotions don’t matter.

As if she can’t break.

As if she doesn’t cry when no one is looking.

As if she isn’t worthy of the same care, gentleness, and love that we so freely give to someone we consider “fragile.”

But what if I told you that sometimes, the strong ones are more fragile than most?

What if I told you that some of us have been “barely” holding on for God knows how many years?

What if I told you that sometimes being strong was never a choice?

Sometimes, strength is simply what happens when life doesn’t give you anywhere safe to fall.

You learn how to wipe your own tears. You learn how to comfort yourself. You learn how to carry your own heart while somehow carrying everyone else’s too.

And eventually, people stop asking if you’re okay because you always seem to be.

But what if I told you that the fragments of us left behind after people kept taking are the very pieces we have been using to carry ourselves forward?

What if I told you that the light we carry for others through the darkness is sometimes the only spark we have left for ourselves?

And still, somehow, we keep it burning.

The strong one.

She is broken.

She is tired.

She deserves to be held.

She deserves a place where she doesn’t have to be the listener, the fixer, the protector, or the one who always knows what to do.

She deserves a place to rest.

She deserves to be treated as if she matters, too.

Sometimes, it really does suck being the strong one.

Because as much as I try to take off the armor, life rarely seems to let me.

When I finally start to lower my guard, when my shoulders begin to relax and I allow myself to believe that maybe—just maybe—it is safe to put the armor down, the ground beneath me turns into quicksand.

And suddenly, I am reminded of why I learned to wear it in the first place.

Why I learned to depend on myself.

Why solitude can sometimes feel safer than the possibility of finally feeling safe with someone, only to have that safety disappear.

So I put the armor back on.

I pick up the pieces.

And I keep going.

Because that is what the strong one does.

But I am learning that strength should not mean suffering silently.

I am strong, but I am tired.

I am strong, but I still need softness.

I am strong, but there are days when I ache to be held instead of always being the one doing the holding.

I am waiting for the day when I can finally rest my mind and my heart. The day I no longer have to question whether the ground beneath me will disappear. The day I can place my armor beside me instead of carrying its weight everywhere I go.

Maybe that is what I want people to understand about the strong ones.

We don’t always need someone to save us.

Sometimes, we just need someone who notices when we are tired.

Someone who asks if we are okay—and stays long enough to hear the real answer.

Someone who reminds us that we do not have to earn love by how much we can carry.

Because even the light needs somewhere to rest when it has spent so long illuminating the way for everyone else.

Even the strong one deserves softness.

Even the strong one deserves to be held.

Even the strong one deserves a safe place to fall.

And maybe one day, I will finally learn that I don’t always have to be strong to be worthy of being loved.

Until then, I will keep reminding myself:

I am the strong one.

But I matter, too.