People talk a lot about the blessing of being strong. They call it resilience. They call it beating the odds. They admire how you always get back up, keep moving, keep holding it all together. However, they rarely wonder or ask what it costs.

The truth is, being “the strong one” is a lonely place to live. It means that when life piles on, when your body is tired, when your heart is stretched thin–people assume you’ll handle it. They forget that you, too, need soft places to land. They forget that the defender sometimes needs defending. They forget that you’re human and are sensitive even if you don’t usually wear that sensitivity on your sleeve. They forget that strong doesn’t mean unbreakable.

These days, the weight feels heavier. I’m watching my parents age. I can see their needs growing, and with it my worry: worry that I won’t have enough time, enough resources, enough of me to give. At the same time, I’m raising a teenager. Teen years so far feel complicated and overwhelming. They require an abundance of patience (that I do not always have), guidance, and the kind of steady love that doesn’t waver even when your child pulls away. Doing it alone sharpens the edges of that challenge. There’s no one to trade shifts with. There’s no one to tag in when I’m drained. There’s no one who witnesses what’s going on.to vent to. There’s no one to brainstorm with in moments of strife. There’s no one to carry half the load.

My life feels like it’s becoming a balancing act between generations. I’m trying to give my child wings while also making sure my parents still feel held. And in the middle of it all, I’m trying not to lose myself while I pursue my passions and try to do my part in this world.

The hardest part? Very few people check on the strong ones. They assume we’re fine because we make it look fine. Yet sometimes, we aren’t. Sometimes we’re standing in the kitchen at midnight staring into the fridge, wondering if anyone sees how tired we are. Sometimes we’re smiling through the meeting or the church service or the family dinner, holding back tears because we know if we let them fall, we might not stop. Sometimes we’re biting our tongues when people talk recklessly to or about us because we feel like we have to be the bigger person. Sometimes we want to not be the responsible one who considers everyone else because we never seem to be considered. Sometimes we want to be more (or perhaps less?) than the person held to the highest of standards. Sometimes we want to be given the benefit of the doubt when things go awry. Sometimes *I* just want to feel like someone has my back no matter what.

But alas. Here I am. On a Friday night fighting through my feelings of so very rarely being held with care. And of course, this isn’t a plea for pity because pity is something I can’t imagine being given either. It is, however, a reminder—for me, and maybe for you, too—that strength and softness can coexist. That the strong ones deserve tenderness, too. That it’s okay to admit the load is heavy, to ask for help, to say out loud, “I need care.”

So if you love someone who always seems to have it together, check on them. Handle them with care. Let them know that they matter. They may not say it, but they need it. If you are that person—the strong one—let this be permission to take off the cape for a while. To breathe. To rest. To be held, instead of holding everything. I can’t tell you just how to do that because I haven’t quite figured it out myself. But I do know we deserve it.

Because even the strongest need somewhere safe to rest and recharge before going back out there and being that one.

Soundtrack of My Life: Hear My Call by Jilly from Philly