August 15, 2025
What It Feels Like to Be the “Strong One” After a Loss
I’ve always had a fiery side, passionate, quick to speak my mind, and not afraid to feel things deeply. But I’m also logical, and when life throws challenges at me, I tend to steady myself by staying busy and focused. When Jenna passed away, that part of me took over. I refused to let my emotions destroy me, not because I didn’t feel the pain; it was unbearable, but because I knew I couldn’t collapse and still be the mother, wife, and person my family needed in that moment.
So when Jenna passed away, I did what came naturally to me: I grieved by doing. I planned her memorial, made sure my two younger daughters, just 11 and 9 at the time, were cared for, and kept my husband Paul and our family moving forward.
From the outside, I must have looked like I was holding it together. People told me I was “so strong.” They meant it as a compliment, but what they didn’t see was how deeply I was hurting. Every quiet moment after the house went still at night felt crushing. The silence was deafening, and the ache of missing Jenna was constant.
Because I wasn’t crying all the time, people assumed I was “handling it” better than others. The truth is, being the strong one often means you’re holding everyone else up while feeling invisible yourself.
The Quiet Weight of Strength
In those early months, I noticed how the more visibly emotional mourners received the most comfort and care. Friends and relatives gathered around them, offering hugs, checking in, and making sure they were okay. I was praised for my composure, but rarely asked how I was really doing. Inside, I was exhausted. I replayed moments with Jenna over and over in my mind. I carried guilt I couldn’t quite name and a longing no amount of “keeping busy” could take away. One night, sitting alone in the kitchen after everyone else had gone to bed, I realized something important: being the strong one might keep you from falling apart, but it can also keep you from healing.Letting My Guard Down
That realization was the beginning of a shift for me. I started making small changes. I told Paul when I needed quiet. I gave myself permission to take naps. I continued journaling, not just about the day, but about the memories, the pain, all the questions I had, and the love I didn’t always express out loud. There came a point when I realized I needed spaces where I didn’t have to “be the strong one.” Places where I could be honest about how much it hurt without worrying about making others uncomfortable. For me, that meant long walks listening to a book or music playing in my ears, spending time in nature where I could breathe a little deeper, and letting the grandeur of the big Oaks hold me when words felt too heavy. Over time, those moments reminded me that I wasn’t intentionally holding my grief in; it was simply my nature to process it differently than others. I didn’t need to match anyone else’s way of expressing pain for it to be real. By permitting myself to let the emotions surface in my way, quietly, steadily, and sometimes unexpectedly, I learned that allowing the pain to move through me was part of finding my way forward.What Helped Me Most
- Journaling for self-reflection – Naming my feelings and releasing thoughts I hadn’t shared aloud.
- Setting boundaries – Being clear about what I could and couldn’t handle in conversations.
- Working with a grief counselor – Finding a safe space where I could be vulnerable without judgment.
- Letting trusted people see my emotions – Allowing others to witness my pain created a deeper connection.
- Slowing down – Permitting myself to rest and acknowledging that healing isn’t straightforward.
What I’ve Learned
I still miss Jenna every single day. There are moments when the weight of her absence feels unbearable. But I’ve learned that real strength isn’t about never breaking, it’s about allowing yourself to be honest about the pain, the love, and the ongoing process of healing. If you’ve been called the “strong one,” please know this: you don’t have to hold it all together to be resilient. Letting someone in might be the bravest and most healing thing you ever do.Author
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