During my last counseling session, my counselor made an incredible comment. It was after I shared my views on strength versus weakness and how much I hated the idea of being weak. She said, “So, pushing down your emotions is being strong to you?” I was floored. I never thought of the way I viewed strength in such matter-of-fact terms until she said it.
Unfortunately, my answer to her question was yes. For many years, I believed that pushing down my emotions and showing a brave face was strength, even if I felt completely distraught deep down. Because even if the inside doesn’t match the outside, at least the world saw strength. The world saw dignity. “Yes, I am strong. Look at me world. All this crazy stuff happened and I’m not even affected by it.” That’s what I told myself and others.
In some ways, this way of coping can be a strength. Carrying on even when it feels like you have nothing left can be your body’s only way of survival. Choosing to live another day despite being depleted is an incredibly strong feat. But what happens when you finally have the room to truly live? What do you do when you reach a greater capacity for life itself? What is strength? And what is weakness?
Most often, I feel like we are more logical and kind when we think about things in terms of someone we love rather than ourselves. If a best friend or family member came to me in tears and shared their most vulnerable hurts and worries with me, I would feel honored. I would not think of them as weak, not even for a moment. But when it comes to our own hurt, why do we feel the need to shove the feelings aside and tell ourselves to suck it up?
Being vulnerable is strength. Allowing yourself to hurt and be wounded in order to heal takes remarkable bravery. Taking on a lesser, weaker version of yourself is not only courageous, it’s necessary. It’s the idea of meekness – or power under control. Sometimes you need to allow yourself to feel all of your scars in order for them to start healing. We can’t keep ignoring pain. How will we get better if we don’t even allow ourselves to be authentic and real to our inner workings?
The scary thing is, I remember being complimented throughout my adolescence and early 20s for being “real” and “genuine.” I think a part of me was at the time. I was real in revealing my life story. But I’m not sure how often I was truly authentic to my pain. I chose not to admit to myself that there even was any pain. I just told myself I was fine and then over time I believed it.
But being not “fine” doesn’t make you a failure. I’ve discovered this past summer that acknowledging my past and the pain from it was the open door I needed for healing to take place. I don’t think we can meditate, medicate, or manifest ourselves to inner healing. What we truly need is honesty. To sit in things. To allow ourselves to feel pain and then heal. Only then, will the real work begin.
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