When No One Checks In on the Strong One
The quiet exhaustion of being the one who always holds it together
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Some days, I want someone to knock on the bathroom door—not because they need me, but because they miss me.
Not because they’re hungry.
Not because they need help finding socks.
Not because the baby is crying again.
Not because they are fighting.
Oh, the fighting.
Mom! He hit me!
Mom! She took my toy!
Mom, mom, mom—
It never stops.
The yelling, the tattling, the bickering over nothing and everything.
It can drive me crazy.
And I think—Why don’t they ever say “Dad, Dad”?
Because I’m the one always there.
Because they come to me for every emotion, every conflict, every mess.
Because I’m the strong one.
Because I always get back up.
Because I always figure it out.
Because I always carry it.
But strength doesn’t mean I don’t feel the weight.
It just means I keep walking with it anyway.
Oh, the feelings.
Everybody just needs to dump their feelings on me.
The kids’ big emotions.
The tantrums.
The overstimulation.
The mess.
The guilt.
The chaos.
And I’m expected to hold it together for everyone.
To be the glue. The calm. The anchor.
So I wake up at the crack of dawn—just for an hour of quiet.
An hour to move my body, to breathe, to remember I’m still in here.
Even if I only slept a couple of hours the night before
because one—or all three—of the kids woke up.
Still, I drag myself out of bed.
And he’s sound asleep.
I look at him and think,
“I want that.”
I want to sleep through the night.
I want to not be the one who gets up, who plans, who holds it all together.
Just for one day, I want to be the one who doesn’t have to think about it all.
How about asking for help?
Nope.
Husband is busy working.
Or he’ll help “in a little bit”—but that little bit never comes.
And if I bring it up?
“You never told me that.”
Where?
Where is the help?
Where is the simple, basic—“Is there anything I can do?”
It never comes.
So I hold it in. Until I can’t.
And sometimes, I take it out on the people I love most.
Sometimes, I snap.
Sometimes, I yell.
Sometimes, I send my kids to bed with no story, no goodnight hug, just silence and a door closing behind me—because I need a break.
Because I’m empty.
Because no one thought to ask, “Are you okay?”
And that guilt? It devours me.
No one checks in on the strong one.
We’re the ones who remember everyone else.
But no one remembers us.
We say, “I’m fine” because it’s easier than explaining the exhaustion, the loneliness, the quiet ache of doing it all with a smile that’s starting to crack.
We’re not angry, not always.
But we are tired.
We are stretched thin.
And we are starving for softness—for someone to hold us.
Sometimes, I fantasize about someone texting just to say,
“Hey, how are you really doing? Not the mom-version. The you underneath it all.”
No one does.
I don’t think people forget.
I think they assume we’re okay because we’ve been okay for so long.
Because we know how to show up.
Because we don’t fall apart in public.
But strength without support becomes survival.
And I’m tired of surviving.
I want to feel held without asking.
I want to be noticed without performing pain.
So, if you have a “strong one” in your life, check in.
Even if they say they’re fine.
Especially if they say they’re fine.
And if you are the strong one…
I see you.
I know how hard it is to carry this much.
You’re allowed to be soft, too.
You shouldn’t have to disappear to be seen.