Ever noticed how every group has that one person?
The one who always “has it together”?
The one who sends encouraging texts, checks in on birthdays, shows up early, and leaves last?
Yeah… that one. The strong friend.
The one people come to — but never ask, “How are you really?”
Because obviously, she’s unbreakable. Built differently. Titanium in heels.
What could she possibly need when she’s the one holding everyone else?
But let me ask you something:
Who checks on the one who checks on everyone?
Who pours into her when her soul is running on E?
Who notices when her laugh gets a little hollow, when her “I’m okay” is just a punctuation mark at the end of exhaustion?
Let’s talk about that friend.
The one society applauds but never hears.
The one who cries in the shower because it’s the only place she won’t be interrupted — and because tears blend well with water.
She doesn’t fall apart in public. She can’t afford it.
She’s “strong,” remember?
She’s the first to be called when there’s a crisis.
The last to be thought of when there’s joy.
She shows up — for everyone.
Birthdays. Breakups. Bar fights. Baby showers.
Even for the ones who don’t return the favor.
And when she’s alone?
Ah, the silence.
Not the peaceful, meditative kind — the suffocating one.
Where her thoughts echo louder than applause she never got.
Where self-worth is questioned not because she lacks it — but because others treat it like it’s invisible.
But hey… she’s the “strong friend,” right?
She doesn’t need validation.
She doesn’t need to be seen.
She chose this role… didn’t she?
Or was she just cast into it — because the world loves women who are useful, but fears women who are vulnerable?
So, she laughs a little louder.
Wears her lip gloss like armor.
Perfects the art of the casual “I’m good.”
Meanwhile, the weight of being everyone’s someone slowly fractures the foundation of who she is.
But strength… true strength… isn’t always about holding it all.
Sometimes it’s in putting it down.
In saying, “Not today.”
In letting someone else carry the torch — or at least offer a damn flashlight.
Because the myth of the strong friend is this:
That she doesn’t need.
That she doesn’t feel.
That she’s immune to the loneliness of being everyone’s anchor and no one’s shore.
But she does. Oh, she does.
So next time you see her — the one with the fierce smile and the tired eyes —
Don’t just assume she’s okay.
Ask. Stay.
Be her soft place for once.
Because even the strongest friends…
Need to be held too.
