Being Strong...

People are far stronger than they give themselves credit for. Consider the pandemic: if you had told the world five years ago that a virus would sweep across the globe, kill millions, and leave us largely defenseless for an entire year, plenty of people would have said, "Nope. Not doing that. I'll just die." And yet — one pandemic later — here we all are.

There's a widely accepted misconception that strength means never feeling vulnerable, that courage means never feeling afraid, and that positivity means never feeling hurt or sad. We tend to assume that people who have survived trauma have somehow developed thick skin — that they've become immune to pain. But that's not how trauma works. Trauma doesn't toughen you. It scars you — physically, mentally, emotionally.

Scar tissue is a perfect metaphor for this. When the body is injured, cells rush to form a protective layer over the wound. On the surface, scar tissue looks thick and resilient, tougher than everything around it. But irritate it, and you'll find it's far more sensitive than ordinary skin. The armor is an illusion.

I've heard versions of the same thing my whole life: "You're so brave — I just assumed you weren't afraid." "You're so strong, this is nothing to you." "You've been through so much worse, so this can't really bother you." Once, a close friend was genuinely shocked to discover that I cry. They had simply assumed I never needed to.

Here's what I know to be true: real strength is choosing to move forward while you feel vulnerable. The vulnerability doesn't disappear — you just refuse to let it stop you. Real courage is moving forward with your fear. And real positive thinking — which is fundamentally different from toxic positivity — is moving forward with your pain and sadness, not pretending they don't exist. Crucially, moving forward doesn't mean leaving your feelings behind. It means honoring them. Giving yourself permission to feel, to grieve, to cope.

I am strong because I have had to constantly navigate vulnerability. I am brave because fear has been a frequent companion in my life. I am a positive person — someone who can joke about very dark things — because that's how I've learned to survive a lifetime of pain. None of that makes me unfeeling. It makes me someone who keeps going anyway.

Living with trauma is lonely. We exist in a world that still doesn't know quite what to do with it, and that lack of support usually isn't born from cruelty — it comes from a simple lack of knowledge. So those of us carrying trauma learn to adapt. We make our vulnerability invisible, which only deepens the loneliness and widens the gap between us and the people who want to help but don't know how. In my case, I was born with a congenital heart defect, which made everything more complicated — I didn't know what support I needed, let alone how to ask for it. For a long time, I just assumed I didn't measure up. That assumption became its own kind of pain.

So let me say this plainly, on behalf of myself and every strong, brave, positive person in your life: we are not superhuman. We haven't transcended suffering or achieved some permanent state of good vibes. We became strong — and we stay strong — because we are vulnerable, often and sometimes without any other choice, and we have decided to keep moving forward anyway.