You tell everyone: “I’m fine.”
But somewhere inside – you’re stuck.

You hold everyone, and you’re the one falling. And no one sees it, because you learned so well how to pretend everything is fine. “Strong.” How many times have you heard that word? And each time it closes you a little more. Because if you’re strong – you can’t collapse. You can’t ask. You can’t say: “I can’t anymore.” That strength became a prison. Not a gift – a duty. And that’s why you’re stuck. Not because you’re weak. Because all your energy goes into holding. You’re gripping so tight there’s no strength left to move. Like a driver gripping the wheel so hard they can’t see the road. Ask yourself now, straight: “What am I waiting for? Permission to rest?” That permission won’t come from outside. Never. Because everyone sees you as strong – they don’t even suspect you need help. You taught them that. You ask: “How do I get out?” – as if the place you’re stuck in were an enemy to escape. But maybe you don’t need to escape. Maybe you need to finally stop there. Enter. Stay. All these years you ran from that place – holding, doing, being strong for others. And that place only wanted you to feel it. Not fix it. Feel it. And you know what I think? Under that strength lives a little girl who once understood: “If I’m strong – I’ll be loved. If I hold everyone – they won’t leave me.” She learned that weakness is dangerous. That she always has to be the one others lean on. And she’s still there. Still holding. Still afraid to let go. That girl doesn’t want another tip on how to be stronger. She wants to be held. Tired as she is.