Sometimes, how people see us becomes a privilege for them. They see the strength, the smile, the resilience. They see the woman who shows up, speaks up, and lifts others. But they don’t always see the cost.
As someone working daily to support women and girls in rural and vulnerable communities, I have faced my share of burnouts, setbacks, and silent frustrations. I have seen women being torn down by the very people who should be their safe space: family, friends, partners. And in those moments, I have asked myself, Who is there for the strong ones?
I’m grateful for the support I receive from my own circle of friends and family who remind me that Iam not alone. But even with that, there’s an unspoken pressure always to be okay. To always be the one who holds it together. Because “you’re strong,” they say. “You always bounce back.”
But strength doesn’t mean we don’t break. It doesn’t mean we don’t cry.
I cry. Often. Quietly. Alone. Not because I’m weak, but because I’m human. And strangely, those tears become fuel for me to see another day. They remind me why I fight, why I rise again the next day to advocate, to organize, to empower.
What hurts most is when I reach out in my most vulnerable moments and I’m told, “Be strong.” As if strength means silence. As if strength means never needing a shoulder.
So today, I want to say this to every woman who’s ever been called “strong” like it’s a shield: You are allowed to feel. You are allowed to fall apart. And you are still powerful in your tears.
Every tear I shed is a testament that I’m still here. Still holding on. Still fighting for myself, and for every woman and girl who needs someone to believe in her.
Let’s normalize checking in on the strong ones. Let’s create spaces where we can be both warriors and wounded. Because healing is part of the revolution too.
A Reflection from the Frontlines of Empowerment.
Srijana Timilisina
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