⚠️ Content Note

This post discusses grief, loss, and a brief mention of suicidal thoughts. Please take care while reading if these topics are tender for you.

If you are struggling or in crisis, help is available. In Canada and the U.S., call or text 9-8-8 for 24/7 support. You are not alone.

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I don’t remember choosing to be “the strong one.”

I just became her.

Somewhere along the way, I decided I couldn’t show too much emotion. I had to kick into overdrive. Be the one others leaned on. No matter what. Even at my own expense.

I never questioned it.

I just did it.

And it cost me.

It cost me my self-worth.
It cost me my mental health.
It cost me parts of myself I didn’t even realize I was giving away.

Most people assume I’m fine.

I’ve gotten very good at putting on a “happy” face. Sometimes I don’t even know how to turn it off.

But strength behind closed doors looks different now.

Now it looks like getting out of bed.
Now it looks like doing one productive thing.
Now it looks like surviving grief without collapsing under it.

Grief is messy.

After Nicole passed, I learned something I never understood before.

Strength isn’t loud.
It isn’t polished.
It isn’t performing during a live cooking show like nothing hurts.

Strength is continuing anyway.

Some days I cope by cooking.
Some days I cope by eating cookies.
Some days I cope by simply existing.

And that counts.

For a long time, I confused being strong with pretending to be okay.

But pretending takes energy. It drains you. It leaves nothing left.

Real strength?

Real strength doesn’t require performance.

It’s quiet.

It’s the moment you think you can’t go on… and you do.

After Nicole’s celebration of life, there was a day I didn’t know how I was going to keep going.

The grief was suffocating. The loneliness was overwhelming. For a moment, I didn’t want to exist in that level of pain anymore.

But I had made a promise.

I promised her I would live for both of us now.

And in that moment, that promise pulled me forward.

One breath.

Then another.

That was strength too.

Grief softened me in how I see the world. It made me cherish people differently.

It also hardened me where it needed to. I learned boundaries quickly. I learned how to protect myself.

Strength five years ago looked like pushing through.

Strength now looks like protecting myself.

Survival strength takes everything from you.

Healing strength gives something back.

Strong doesn’t mean physical power.

It means mental endurance.
It means inner resilience.
It means choosing to stay — even when it hurts.

And surviving?

Surviving isn’t about being unaffected.

It’s about being changed… and still showing up.

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💛 Your Turn

What does strength look like for you right now?

If this resonated, I’d love for you to leave a comment on the blog itself. I read every single one.