The Cost of Being “The Strong One”

At some point in life, many of us become the strong one.
Often without realizing it, that role becomes one of the most dangerous identities we will ever inhabit.

The reliable one.
The one who holds things together.
The one others lean on, often without noticing the weight being carried.

This kind of strength is rarely chosen consciously. More often, it is shaped through necessity: early responsibility, emotionally unpredictable environments, or learning, subtly or explicitly, that vulnerability was not safe, welcome, or effective. Strength becomes a strategy. Then a habit. Then, eventually, an identity.

And identities always have costs.

Psychological and stress-physiology research shows that chronic emotional suppression—often socially rewarded as “resilience” or “coping well”—is associated with sustained sympathetic nervous system activation, increased cortisol exposure, and reduced emotional processing capacity. In simpler terms: the body continues to respond to what the mind has learned to override. The body keeps score, even when everything appears to be functioning.

The strong one rarely feels burned out at first.

They feel capable.
Functional.
Needed.

They are often praised for “handling so much” and “never falling apart.” But what eventually gives way is not a dramatic collapse, it’s something quieter and more disorienting.

A narrowing of emotional range.
A fatigue that rest doesn’t resolve.
A low-grade resentment for being depended on.
A loss of joy without a clear reason.

This is often the moment people begin asking, What’s wrong with me?
Nothing is wrong. Something has simply been carried for too long.

I know this terrain intimately.

There was a long period in my life when being strong worked. It allowed me to survive demanding environments, hold others through crisis, make clear decisions under pressure, and remain outwardly composed. I was praised for it. I relied on it. I trusted it.

Until my body no longer agreed.

What I didn’t understand then, but do now, is that the body will eventually interrupt any identity that prevents regulation.

What emerged wasn’t a dramatic breakdown, but a deep physiological exhaustion often described as adrenal fatigue. Beneath it was something even more confronting: a profound longing to be held. Not fixed. Not advised. Held.

That longing felt confusing at first, even inconvenient. I had been the one doing the holding, the organizing, the stabilizing. But the message from my system was unmistakable: willpower was no longer enough. Strength had reached its limit.

Through medicine, neuroscience, somatic work, and lived experience, I’ve come to understand this: strength without support slowly becomes isolation. And isolation, sustained over time, becomes a form of self-abandonment, even when it looks competent from the outside.

This is often where people come to my work.

Not because they are falling apart, but because something essential has gone quiet inside them. They’ve done everything right. They’ve carried responsibility, leadership, grief, or care for others with integrity. And yet, their nervous system is asking for something different now.

Not more effort.
Not more resilience.
But regulation, witnessing, and relational safety.

Many people arrive here during burnout, grief, or moments of profound life transition when old ways of coping stop working, and pushing forward begins to cost more than it gives.

Transitions, whether burnout, grief, identity shifts, illness, or existential reckoning, are not meant to be navigated alone. The nervous system is not designed for solitary endurance. It recalibrates, softens, and heals in connection.

There is nothing wrong with being strong.

But strength was never meant to be carried alone.

Sometimes the most honest act is not becoming stronger—but allowing yourself to be supported by something other than your own will.

And that, too, is a form of strength.

An Invitation

If this piece resonates, it may be because your nervous system is asking for something different, not more effort, but space to soften, to be witnessed, and to recalibrate.

This is the work I do.

I support people who have carried responsibility, leadership, grief, or care for others for a long time—and are now sensing that their old ways of being strong are no longer sustainable. Together, we create a place where the body can exhale, meaning can be restored, and transitions can be met with steadiness rather than self-abandonment.

If you feel called to explore this work, you’re welcome to reach out using the contact form on this site for a free 20 minute discovery call. There’s no expectation to have the right words or a clear outcome, only an opening to listen to what’s already asking to be heard.