The Fragility of My Strength

Like trees that bend around a stone, we learn to flourish, but the obstruction remains, quietly altering our form.

Someone recently asked me, “how is mental health”.
Without thinking too deeply, I smiled and said, “I’m fine. Maybe because of my experiences, I’ve built resilience, I’ve learned how to push through difficult situations and navigate disappointment.”

But later that day, I caught myself wondering: Am I truly fine? Or have I just learned to function well through the noise?

Many of us wear “strength” like a badge of honor. We move through heartbreak, loss, betrayal, or pressure with our heads high and we call it resilience. But sometimes what we call “strength” is really survival; a way to stay afloat while quietly suppressing the parts of ourselves that still ache. I read somewhere that the human brain adapts to pain by building what psychologists call “emotional calluses.” Just as our skin thickens to protect against friction, our hearts sometimes do the same, not out of strength, but out of necessity. We become efficient at moving on, excellent at appearing whole.

But efficiency is not healing.

Resilience, though noble, has a shadow side. When left unexamined, it can become a sophisticated disguise for unaddressed grief. We tell ourselves we’ve “grown,” but perhaps what we’ve really done is grow around our pain, not through it. Like trees that bend around a stone, we learn to flourish, but the obstruction remains, quietly altering our form.

There’s nothing wrong with being strong, life demands it of us. But strength without introspection can harden us instead of healing us. It’s easy to confuse emotional numbness for peace, or silence for clarity.

So today, I asked myself:

Am I genuinely at peace, or have I simply learned to   suppress discomfort elegantly?
Do I rest, or merely pause between battles?
Have I healed, or have I mastered performance under pressure?

I read another study that said unresolved emotions don’t disappear, they store themselves in the body. In tight shoulders. In insomnia. In that quiet sense of fatigue that no amount of rest cures. The body keeps score, even when the mind insists it’s fine.

Take a moment to pause. Listen to your body, the way it holds stress, the way your breath shortens when something triggers a buried memory. Pay attention to your reactions, what makes you defensive, distant, or cold. And when you get a quiet moment, ask yourself: What part of me have I silenced so I could stay strong?

You might find that you’re fine, genuinely fine. But you might also uncover layers that need tenderness, not toughness.

So today, before the world asks you how you’re doing, ask yourself first, and this time, listen deeply to the answer.