Strength Without Silence

There was a time in my life when I believed silence was strength.

I learned it by watching the women who raised me and surrounded me—women who survived trauma without ever naming it. They were strong. Productive. Dependable. They smiled through pain and carried entire families, churches, and communities on their backs. There were no speeches about healing, no social media posts about boundaries or burnout. There was just endurance.

From them, I learned powerful lessons:Silence meant strength.Over-functioning meant love.Self-sacrifice meant worth.

These women were my models—caregivers, leaders, church women, community matriarchs. Watching them taught me how to push through instead of pause. How to lead while bleeding. How to believe rest had to be earned and pain had to stay private. And in many ways, it worked. It made me capable. Resilient. Reliable.

But it also made me tired in places sleep couldn’t touch.

That kind of strength comes at a cost. While it helped me show up when life was heavy, it delayed my healing. It taught me that asking for help was weakness and that tending to myself came last. I didn’t realize for a long time that endurance and wholeness are not the same thing.

Growth came later—quietly, honestly—when I realized I could unlearn what I observed without dishonoring who taught me. I didn’t have to reject their strength to evolve beyond their silence. I could keep what was life-giving and release what was life-draining.

In this new era, I choose strength infused with empathy, leadership illuminated by compassion, and survival laced with healing.

I now model something different on purpose. Strength that allows softness. Leadership that includes rest. Survival that makes room for healing. Watching others shaped me—but choosing what to keep is what shaped my freedom.

And that choice changes everything.