When Strength Means Feeling It All
Perhaps strength lies in those soft, fragile moments of allowing ourselves to feel everything — even the things that hurt.
Five years ago, I was losing myself.
It started with the crying. Every day, without fail, I’d break down, sometimes without warning, sometimes with a slow burn that would simmer until I couldn’t contain it anymore. And when morning came, I was already exhausted — not just tired, but hollow, as if I had been drained overnight and left with nothing to start the day with. I couldn’t feel anything. No happiness, no anger. Just… emptiness.
The closest word to describe it is despair, but even that felt too specific for the gray, shapeless void inside me.
I was horrified of tomorrow, not because of what it might bring, but because I couldn’t see it at all. It felt like standing at the edge of a dark void, wondering if there was anything on the other side — wondering if there were better days ahead, or if it was just endless darkness?
There were small things, like dropping a spoon. Before (or today), I would’ve picked it up without thinking. But back then? It took me several minutes until I decided to pick it up, because all I thought was: What’s the point?
Everything felt meaningless.
I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I didn’t know how to fix it. And that was the worst part. I had a good life. Granted, it wasn’t perfect, but everything looked fine, they were good enough that I should be happy. So, why wasn’t I?
I kept telling myself I shouldn’t feel like this. Millions of people had it worse than me — why couldn’t I just be a little more grateful? Why couldn’t I be a little more hopeful?
That’s where the shame crept in. I wasn’t just sad or numb — I was ashamed for feeling this way. For not being able to push through, for not being strong enough.
In my mind, strength was about holding steady, about staying positive no matter how much pain we’re in. It was plastering on a smile and pushing through the day, pretending everything was fine, even when it wasn’t.
So, I pushed those feelings down, deeper and deeper, until they were like stones tied to my chest, pulling me further into the dark. The more I fought my emotions, the heavier they became. And slowly, without even realizing it, I was losing myself.
It wasn’t until I took that first real step toward healing that things began to change. That step wasn’t some grand gesture or big decision. It was simple, really: I acknowledged my feelings. I stopped pretending they weren’t there. I stopped trying to push them away and, instead, I listened to them.
It sounds so small, but it was everything. Acknowledging my depression, my despair — naming it for what it was — was the first step that led me toward my therapist’s door. It was the moment I accepted that feeling these things didn’t make me weak. It just made me human.
Sadness, fear, anger — these emotions aren’t wrong. Even despair isn’t wrong. They’re not flaws in the system; they’re just part of being alive, of living. We don’t have to bury them, or pretend they don’t belong, or tell ourselves we’re being ungrateful for feeling them.
Here’s the truth I’ve learned: we can’t control what emotions we feel. They come when they come, like waves crashing onto the shore. We don’t get to decide which waves roll in. But we do get to choose how we respond to them. We can try to regulate them, learn to express them in ways that are healthy for us and for those around us. But we can’t make them disappear just because we don’t like how they feel.
I’ve come to realize that sometimes, strength isn’t in pushing through or putting on a brave face. It’s in those soft, fragile moments of allowing ourselves to feel everything — even the things that hurt.
It’s in allowing yourself to feel it all, the fear, the pain, the uncertainty. And it’s in these cracks, where we let ourselves be vulnerable, that light gets in, guiding us forward, not in leaps or bounds —
but one small, trembling step at a time.
And sometimes, perhaps that’s enough.
