Letting Go of the Pressure to Be Okay All the Time 

I used to think being strong meant pretending I was okay, even when I wasn’t. 

For most of my life, I wore emotional self-sufficiency like armour. Growing up in a household shaped by mental illness and instability, I learned early on that showing pain made me more vulnerable. There was no space for softness, only survival. So, I became “the strong one.” The helper. The calm in the chaos. I prided myself on not needing anything, on holding everything together. I believed if I just pushed through and kept going, maybe things would get better. Maybe I would be enough. 

Photo courtesy: Freepik 

Over time, that kind of strength started to cost me. It’s easy to believe that resilience means hiding our emotions.  

Cultural narratives, especially in the media, reinforce this. In movies and shows, we see “strong” characters soldiering on through trauma without flinching. Female leads are praised for being tough, stoic and unbreakable. Even when they fall apart, they rarely cry. They rarely ask for help. They never let their pain slow them down. 

I didn’t realize how deeply I had absorbed this message until my mental health started to unravel in university. Despite years of anxiety, insomnia and burnout, I didn’t think I had the right to struggle. I clung to the identity of the dependable one, the one who didn’t fall apart. I feared that if I admitted how much I was hurting, everything would collapse. Or worse, people would see me differently. I wouldn’t be “strong” anymore. 

Slowly, I began to see that the kind of strength I was chasing wasn’t strength at all — it was silence. It was shame. It was a quiet belief that needing support made me weak. 

I’m not alone in this. Many young Canadians, especially those with multiple identities such as racialized, Indigenous, neurodivergent, LGBTQIA2S+, first-generation youth, carry a double burden. According to the Canadian Mental Health Association, approximately 1 in 5 Canadians experience a mental health problem or illness each year, yet stigma and systemic barriers often prevent them from seeking help. For Indigenous youth, the rates of mental health challenges and suicide are disproportionately high, influenced by historic and ongoing trauma. 

Photo courtesy: Pexels (photo by Vie Studio) 

When we constantly need to prove ourselves, vulnerability feels risky. Yet denying it takes a toll on our bodies, our relationships and our sense of self. 

The truth is, emotions don’t disappear when we ignore them. They show up as exhaustion, irritability, panic attacks and disconnection. I didn’t learn to name or sit with my emotions until I was forced to. Therapy helped. So did quiet talks with friends who admitted they struggled too. One of the most healing moments was when someone said, “You don’t have to be okay for me to care about you.” 

That sentence broke something open. And something softer started to grow. 

Photo courtesy: Pexels (photo by SHVETS production) 

I’m still learning to let go of the pressure to be okay all the time. It’s hard. Some days, I feel guilty for resting. I catch myself apologizing for needing reassurance or taking up space. But I’m trying. I’m practi​c​ing. I’ve come to believe real strength isn’t carrying everything alone, it’s knowing when to put things down. It’s letting yourself be held. 

Sometimes strength looks like crying in a bathroom stall. Sometimes it’s sending a “hey, I’m not okay” text. Sometimes it’s saying ​‘​no​.’​ Other times, it’s getting out of bed when you really don’t want to. It doesn’t always look like power poses and bold declarations. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s barely visible. But it’s real. 

I wish more people talked about this kind of strength, the soft kind. The messy kind. The kind that doesn’t get awards but keeps us alive. 

If you’re reading this and you’re tired of holding everything in, this is your reminder: you’re allowed to let go. You’re allowed to feel. You’re allowed to be more than the “strong one.” There is strength in softness. And there is freedom in allowing yourself to be fully human. 

You are worthy of love, care and belonging, even on the days you’re not okay.