Honestly, I’m not as strong as I let on. It’s often easier to say, “Yeah, I’m fine—how about you?” than to say, “Ugh! What a terrible week…” and start explaining your situation, like you’re in an endless tunnel. You get the picture? Not to mention seeing a hint of discouragement on your friend’s face.
I put on a brave face—I’m doing just fine. I’m in a good mood, ready, and in control. And it goes on and on—I lie to myself when, deep down, I’m just so-so, and sometimes not at all. My heart’s racing a hundred miles an hour; I’m more often lost in my thoughts than taking action. I’m anxious—tell me I’m not the only one this happens to!
Situations keep piling up—the successes, the failures. And I keep pushing against the grain. The days go by without me feeling like I’m making any progress, but I haven’t admitted anything; I’ve remained as impassive as a statue you’ve chosen to give a smile.
Lack of sleep has been a routine for years now. This daily grind is deeply ingrained in me. The urge to scream at the top of my lungs is there—I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. I’m on the verge of breaking down, and when my kids see me wipe away a tear, I pause, as if for a moment time has frozen and I can savor the moment. That’s when vulnerability sets in—in front of the people I love most in the world—and everything becomes clear. I say to myself: “Hey, girl! Look at what a beautiful family you have—that’s what you’re fighting for, day after day. Tell them that Mom is exhausted, that her head is spinning.”
Telling them first isn’t a sign of weakness—on the contrary, it shows that you, too, can be vulnerable. That it’s okay to lose control and let your emotions out. It feels good to feel light—at least for as long as it lasts before I put my armor back on.
Being strong is good, but admitting that you’re fragile and human is better.