“The world shatters everyone, and afterward, many find strength in the shattered areas.” ~Ernest Hemingway
My grandmother had just passed away. My sister and I had exited the room where her body remained, and we found ourselves silently standing in the elevator as the doors closed. My sister glanced at me and said, “Now you’re the final strong one in this family.”
Her words were a source of comfort. I felt a sense of pride. And then, almost instantly, a different feeling emerged. My stomach tightened. I simply wanted to stop the elevator, escape, and never look back. My sister wasn’t revealing something I didn’t already know. She merely articulated what I had recognized within myself long ago, and a part of me acknowledged my desire to flee. But I was unsure of how. At least, not yet.
To grasp why those words resonated so deeply, you must return to a hallway. I was six or seven years old, standing outside my mother’s room. She had returned from the psychiatric hospital a few months prior. I had eagerly waited for that moment. I had envisioned her return, the reconnection, life returning to its previous state, despite having forgotten what that actually entailed by then.
Then she came home, and she shut the door. Behind it, I could hear her typewriter clacking away. She was in the process of writing a novel.
I knocked politely. By then, I had learned to be courteous about my own needs. The response was immediate: “No. Don’t disrupt me.” I recognized the specific tone in her voice. It had been directed at me before, when she claimed I was “too much” for her.
So I departed. I don’t recall feeling angry. I remember feeling like I comprehended. Like it made sense that the door would be closed. I felt the appropriate reaction was to attend to myself and not inquire again. That choice, made in a hallway at six or seven, laid the groundwork for the next forty years of my life.
My mother’s absence, even when she was physically around, had begun earlier.
When I reflect on the days before her commitment to the psychiatric hospital, I mostly recall waiting for her to find some time for me. I remember her telling me to stop crying because it overwhelmed her. Accusing me of taking a ring from her that I hadn’t actually touched, simply because she had misplaced it. Shouting at my father that I was too strong-minded, and she couldn’t handle me anymore.
These were all indicators of a woman on the verge of breaking under the weight of her own mind, but I didn’t grasp that at the time.
When I was about five years old, she was admitted to a psychiatric hospital due to a severe psychosis. Honestly, I don’t recall much from those days. My sister had been born a few months prior. My grandmother unexpectedly came to take me from school. My grandparents took me and my baby sister in, and I suddenly found myself in a new city, a new school, without friends. Something within me must have resolved at that moment that I was, in an essential sense, alone.
When she returned, I hoped things would change. The closed door indicated to me that they had not. So I became helpful. I cared for my little sister. I kept watch over my father. I monitored the mood in our home as a small meteorologist might track the weather, constantly scanning, constantly adjusting, ensuring no one would need to fret about me since I was already wracked with worry about everything else.
Later, following my parents’ divorce and my mother moving elsewhere, I took care of her too. Every two weeks, I traveled by train with my sister to visit her. Never knowing what to anticipate. Vigilantly searching for signs of a manic episode. Treading lightly, conscious not to trigger her.
When I resolved at fourteen not to visit her anymore, I kept track of her from afar, over the phone. For years. I can’t recall ever being anything other than a mother to her. I was never her daughter.
Being strong for everyone didn’t feel like a burden then. I identified it as my essence. It felt like a necessary responsibility. Yet it provided a peculiar sense of safety. As long as I was the one keeping everything intact, I had a role. A reason to be needed. And being needed felt, if I’m honest, remarkably similar to being loved.
What I didn’t realize then, and what took me decades to clarify, is that I had constructed a prison within it. Deep down, I believed that if I ceased being strong, everything would unravel. Not solely for those around me. For me as well. Because who would catch me? I decided, at six years old, in that hallway, that the answer was no one.
So I continued on. The desire to be useful and extraordinary propelled me through life. I spent two decades as a professional actor. Returned to academia and earned a PhD at forty-five. Launched an entirely new career at a university. Married and had two children. A life that appeared, from the outside, to belong to someone who had it all figured out. And in many respects, I did. Yet I was also the person who answered every call, who showed up when requested, who said yes before confirming whether I had anything left to contribute.
They say the body keeps score. Mine recorded every detail meticulously.
Years later, my sister faced a difficult time. Whatever was occurring in my own life faded into the background. Only one clear focus: the strong one activating. But this time, my body resisted. I suddenly felt cold to the core. My head started to spin. Nausea washed over me. Even if I desired to leap into action, I was unable to. I lay in bed for hours, not because I chose to rest, but simply because I had no other choice.
As I lay there under the covers, striving to warm up, something shifted. My body had taken the decision my mind couldn’t. It declared, “Not today.” And for the first time, I allowed that to be sufficient. It felt like a relief. The following day, I learned that my sister had coped. Also without my intervention.
The real turning point arrived during a vacation. My mother called. She wanted me to come over as soon as I returned and “finally” take care of her. She enumerated the things she expected from me, things daughters do. When I attempted to delay her, she recounted stories of other daughters who fulfilled those roles. And suddenly, as she paused, I said, calmly and surprising myself: “I’m not like that.”
I knew, as I articulated it, that it wasn’t entirely accurate. Not in the way she interpreted it. I had been precisely that way for decades.
I had called every day for years to let her vent. I had been vigilant for indications she might need hospitalization. I had, in many ways, acted more like a parent to her than a child.
However, I also understood that what I stated was true in a way that mattered to me. I was no longer going to prove otherwise. Not today. Not for this. I hung up and felt something new: relief. The relief of putting something down.
What I’ve gradually come to comprehend, though imperfectly, is this: Being strong wasn’t merely imposed upon me. I embraced it as well. It offered me something I desperately required: a role, a sense of safety, a means to stay close to those I loved without risking the vulnerability that had already taken so much from me. Recognizing that clearly, without blame and without shame, has been pivotal in changing it.
The journey since then hasn’t involved becoming less strong. I remain strong. That is genuinely a part of my identity. What has changed is the purpose of that strength. It no longer needs to be the price I pay for belonging. It no longer needs to validate my worthiness.
What I’m learning instead is this: I can be present with loved ones without taking over their struggles. I can allow someone I care for to sit with challenging situations without rushing in to solve it. I can trust that they are capable, that my absence from the role of rescuer does not equate to abandonment.
And gradually, in the space that opens when I cease managing everything, I’m discovering something unexpected. There is finally room for someone to inquire about my well-being. And space, for the first time, to genuinely respond.
The decision I reached in front of that closed door was not incorrect. It was the best a six-year-old could manage with her understanding. But I am no longer six.
I was never merely the strong one. I’m also the one who deserves to be held.
About Femke E. Bakker
Dr. Femke E. Bakker is a political psychologist, certified meditation educator, and TEDx speaker. She is the originator of the Selfgentleness Perspective, a practice of radically embracing oneself as the most crucial individual deserving of one’s own kindness. She writes and teaches for self-aware adults who continuously find themselves drawn back into self-criticism and people-pleasing, even after years of personal work. Discover her at drfemkebakker.com.
**The Trials of Being the Family’s Strongest Member: A Personal Reflection**
Being acknowledged as the strongest member of a family often comes with distinctive challenges and obligations. This position, while at times seen as a locus of power and stability, can also bring forth significant emotional and mental strains. In this reflection, I will delve into the intricacies of this role, drawing from personal experiences and observations.
**1. The Burden of Expectations**
One of the primary challenges of being the family’s strongest member lies in the burden of expectations. Family members often look to the strongest individual for support, direction, and solutions to problems. This expectation can generate pressure to be consistently available, to always possess the right answers, and to maintain an appearance of strength. The fear of disappointing others might lead to stress and anxiety, as the strongest member may feel compelled to hide vulnerability or weakness.
**2. Emotional Loneliness**
While being the strong one typically means being a source of support for others, it can also lead to emotional loneliness. The strongest member might feel they cannot reveal their own struggles or fears, believing it could undermine their perceived strength. This can evoke a sense of isolation, as they might feel they have no one to confide in for support. The pressure of being the emotional anchor for the family can result in feelings of loneliness, even among a sea of people.
**3. The Risk of Burnout**
Constantly serving as the cornerstone of strength can lead to burnout. The strongest member may find themselves stretched too thin, balancing the needs of various family members while neglecting their own well-being. This can culminate in physical and emotional exhaustion, complicating their ability to sustain the very strength others depend upon. Acknowledging the signs of burnout and taking measures to prioritize self-care is crucial, yet it can be daunting when the focus frequently lies on aiding others.
**4. Navigating Family Conflicts**
Being the strongest member often places one in the role of mediator during family disputes. While this role can be rewarding, it can also be exhausting. The strongest member may feel obligated to uphold harmony and resolve conflicts, which may create internal discord if their opinions or feelings about the situation diverge. Balancing the desire to foster family unity with personal beliefs can incite tension and stress.
**5. The Challenge of Transition**
As families progress, so do the dynamics of strength within them. The strongest member may struggle to adapt to changes, such as children maturing, parents becoming older, or shifts in family roles. This can cause feelings of insecurity and a sense of loss, as the familiar identity of being the strong one might no longer apply. Embracing transitions and redefining what strength entails through various life stages can be a considerable challenge.
**6. The Significance of Vulnerability**
Amidst the challenges, accepting vulnerability can serve as a potent tool for the strongest member. Being open about personal struggles and emotions can nurture deeper bonds within the family. It can also inspire others to express their own vulnerabilities, fostering a balanced dynamic where everyone feels supported. Understanding that strength encompasses not just resilience but also authenticity can lead to healthier relationships.
**Conclusion**
Being the family’s strongest member encompasses both honor and challenge. While it bears expectations and responsibilities, it also presents avenues for growth and connection. Recognizing the complexities of this role and prioritizing self-care, vulnerability, and open dialogue can facilitate the navigation of arising challenges. Ultimately, strength can be redefined in manners that encourage not only personal well-being but also a more supportive family atmosphere.