There is a certain expectation placed upon those who have always been the strong ones. The ones who are reliable, who always have the answers, who never seem to falter. They are the problem solvers, the pillars of support, the ones others turn to in moments of crisis. But what happens when the strong are the ones who need saving?
For years, I was that person—the one who carried the burdens of others, the one people sought for advice, solutions, and comfort. I took on their pain, absorbed their fears, and helped them navigate the storms in their lives. But somewhere along the way, I forgot myself. My own struggles were pushed aside, deemed less important because there was always someone else who needed more.
And then, piece by piece, I started to crumble.
Mental illness doesn’t always look the way people expect it to. It doesn’t always announce itself in grand, obvious ways. Sometimes, it’s just a quiet erosion of the soul. A slow unraveling that no one notices because, on the surface, you’re still functioning. You still smile. You still work. You still show up. But inside, the weight becomes unbearable.
Four times in four years, I was at the brink. Twice in the last few months, I had a plan. Hanging. Overdose. My mind told me that this was the only way to silence the exhaustion, the fear, the overwhelming sense of failure. And yet, every time, something held me back. Was it weakness? Some might say so. But I’ve come to realise that maybe it was something else entirely.
Fear kept me alive.
Not a fear of dying, but a fear of what leaving this earth would mean. The fear of what it would do to the people who had come to rely on me, to the ones who loved me, even if I felt unworthy of that love. The fear that my final act would undo everything I had built, everything I had given to others.
I did leave and I cruely broke the bond with my loved ones. Not because I consciously wanted to hurt anyone - because I genuinely felt they would be better off without me.
I cut off all contact and left, not knowing if I was going to leave this earth. I was wrong and now have to rebuild myself.
There is a cruel irony in being the ‘strong one.’ People don’t check on you the same way you check on them. They assume you’re fine because you always have been. They don’t see the fractures forming beneath the surface. And often, we don’t show them—because admitting that we’re not okay feels like failure.
But here’s the truth: even the strongest among us break. And when we do, it’s not weakness. It’s human.
I don’t have all the answers, not for myself and not for anyone else. But I do know this—if you’re struggling, if you’ve reached that edge, if you’ve thought about ending it all, you are not alone. And you don’t have to carry it alone.
Maybe it’s time we stop expecting the strong ones to always have it together. Maybe it’s time we start asking them the same question they ask everyone else:
“Are you really okay?”
And if the answer is no, maybe it’s time we listen.
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