Based in Barrie (and Windsor), Ontario, Catherine Chouinard is an adventurous Rambler with a passion for travel, running, and embracing new challenges—including recently completing several half marathons. When she's not working in the auto industry or spending time with her two grown children, you'll often find her transforming furniture or tackling her latest home décor project.
The other day, I was having a heart-to-heart with someone I care about. We were talking about another person in our lives who wasn't doing well emotionally, and the conversation naturally turned to mental health and how we support the people around us.
As we talked, he said something that made me feel both proud and a little taken aback.
He told me that, of the people in our little circle, he thought I was the strongest.
His words stayed with me long after the conversation ended.
On one hand, I liked being seen as the strong one. But on the other, I wasn't sure it was true—or at least not something I had chosen to be. I think life has simply forced me into that role, especially within my family.
As I reflected on those words, I started thinking about my friendships and family relationships.
I've often been the one who reaches out first—the one sending the "How are you doing?" or "Are you okay?" text. Somewhere along the way, I noticed that those messages didn't often come back my way.
For a long time, I took that personally. I wondered if I cared more than other people did. During COVID, I remember checking in on friends and family who were isolating. At one point I stopped reaching out, partly because I was curious what would happen. The silence hurt.
Looking back, though, I see it a little differently.
I don't think the people in my life cared any less. I think they had simply come to see me as someone who was always okay. I had become so good at being the one who offered support that I never showed anyone I might need it too.
So when I was told I was "the strong one," it made me ask myself a different question:
What is the cost of being strong?
I think the cost is that people assume you're okay. They assume you don't need anyone checking in on you because you've always got everything under control.
You become the person who holds space for everyone else, while no one realizes you might need someone to hold space for you.
Over time, that can become lonely. It can quietly build resentment. You begin to feel unseen.
Not because the people in your life are uncaring or thoughtless, but because you've become so good at carrying everything yourself that you've unintentionally convinced everyone else that you don't need help.
Being the strong one can also blur your own emotional awareness. You become so practiced at reading everyone else's feelings that you stop checking in with your own. You push your emotions aside because there's always someone who "needs it more." You tell yourself you'll deal with it later.
But later has a way of never arriving.
The irony is that while you're busy caring for everyone else, no one is caring for you—not because they don't want to, but because they don't know you need them.
I'm beginning to realize that real strength isn't pretending I'm okay all the time. Real strength is allowing myself to be known. It's being able to say, "I'm not okay today," even though that feels unfamiliar and deeply uncomfortable.
Because if you never step out of the role of "the strong one," no one ever learns how to meet you anywhere else.
Maybe that's the lesson I'm still learning. Maybe asking for help isn't a weakness at all. Maybe it's trust. Maybe the people who have leaned on me for years would actually welcome the opportunity to be there for me.
And maybe—just maybe—I wouldn't be the burden I've convinced myself I would be.
Strength isn't only about carrying others. Sometimes, it's having the courage to let someone carry you for a while.
READ MORE: Her Story, Ramblers Cafe.
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