Strength

Sometimes we think strength means being able to lift heavy things, face fear without flinching, or stand alone. And while those things may signal a kind of strength, they’re not the only—or even the truest—measure of it.

There was a time, what feels like a lifetime ago, when even the smallest things frightened me. I didn’t feel brave or courageous or strong. I was afraid, and that fear manifested in different ways. But at some point, I realized I needed to change—not for myself, if I’m being honest, but for my children. I didn’t yet love myself enough to fight for me, but I have always loved them fiercely, so I began to grow. I stretched. I became who they needed—and in doing so, I became who I needed, too.

I learned to protect myself, to be proud of myself, to be loyal to myself. I became the mother I never had, and that allowed me to grow into the mother my children deserved. It still amazes me how much I benefited from the changes I made for their sake.

I learned to stand on my own—but it’s my hope that none of you ever have to. People say we come into this world alone and leave it the same way, but that’s not true. We arrive into loving arms, and hopefully, we depart the same way. We are not meant to be alone. We weren’t made to be solitary. Even in the beginning, man was not complete until woman was made—connection is part of our very design.

I am deeply grateful for the friends and family who act as scaffolding when I can’t hold myself upright. For Ego, the best dog in the world, who teaches me courage daily and makes me feel safe even when he isn’t beside me. I no longer push myself into scary places or chase the dopamine that comes at the cost of my peace—I know myself well enough now to know what’s worth it and what’s not.

Yes, I can lift heavy things. But now I have children who can help carry the loads I no longer can. That shift has been both humbling and beautiful.

So I’ve been reflecting on what it really means to be strong, and I’m reminded of Bréne Brown’s words. Strength isn’t solitary. Soldiers don’t walk into battle alone. Athletes don’t take the field by themselves. Even those we see as fiercely independent have people supporting them behind the scenes.

True strength includes vulnerability. It means risking failure, pain, heartbreak. And the only reason we’re able to do that is because we trust the people beside us. I know my most courageous moments come when I feel safe in my relationships—when I know I’m not alone. That’s when I can take big chances, knowing I have people who will catch me when I fall. Because I will fall. We all do.

And if we’re not failing from time to time, maybe we’re only reaching for what’s already within our grasp. I want more than that. I hope you do, too.