Maybe I was never strong, but I was always brave

“You’re not as strong as you used to be. I see you breaking down more often now.”

I paused and thought about this months after a dear one uttered these words.

I questioned myself and sipping on my morning tea, I tried to understand.

It was strange to realize that I don’t remember calling myself strong, ever.

Everyone around me did, except me.

Each time someone called me strong for the terrible things I survived in the past or the big dreams I chase now, I simply smiled.

I have always been known to choose my words wisely and I only remember calling myself either brave or proudly vulnerable.

I did that because I believe brave suits me better. I did not do things with sheer confidence. I just did them despite being afraid.

I struggled and there was no veil to hide it.

And throughout, despite everything, I never let my brokenness stop me from going after my dreams. For that, brave is the word.

I healed at a pace slower than a snail’s. I have always been transparent about my emotional state.

For this, vulnerability is the word.

Now I’m beginning to wonder about how people really perceive strength.

Does being strong means not letting your feelings get to you? Is numbness the new strength?

If yes, then, I’m not sure if I was strong EVER.

I’ve always been someone who lets feelings wash all over her. It was visible to everyone who has known me closely. Each loved one has watched me cry like a baby every time things went bad. Then, they also watched me get up and do what’s right. They watched me chase what’s mine — my dear life.

I’ve always allowed myself to feel and got into a mess which I think is the opposite of strong these days. I do that because I’d always strived to understand pain than avoid it or hope it’d disappear if I ignore it just long enough. Maybe it works for others, not for me. My demons know how to chase.

Fighting life’s battles take a lot of courage, maybe strong people do it flawlessly (I do it messily). But taking responsibility for your own life after the dust settles, bearing consequences of a lost battle and continuing to give yourself a chance at life every single morning, takes everything that is inside you and

I do it gracefully. Every. Single. Time.

Maybe I was never strong, but I was always brave.

I might not be the most ideal fighter or the strongest person, but I’m a warrior in my own world and the hero of my own life.

I fight in my own soft ways and treasure my core qualities because I refuse to succumb to anything that tries to change me and makes me ordinary.

In the way I fight, breaking down and shedding tears is necessary. It is a part of the process, and I’m certain it is definitely not a sign of strength. Nonetheless, I accept it.

Maybe the world is right, I’m not strong, I’m only stubborn and proudly vulnerable.

People come and go, they do good, bad and horrific things, but I never let parts of me disappear with them.

And all along, I think ‘brave’ suited me better.

And now, I think ‘invincible’ describes me better.

— The Unfathomed