“Be strong!” I always challenged my little girls when they’d fall and scrape a knee, come home with an overwhelming school assignment, or express concern about a stressful childhood relationship.  Strong is important to me.  Power up, pull through, smile, show up, get it done. Don’t accept anything less.

I am strong.

Life swelled into a symphony of events, responsibilities, and expectations.  I loved it that you needed me. I thrived when you anticipated big things from me. “Look at me! Love me!  Tell me I’m enough!”

I can do it all.

Unexpected betrayal swept us off our feet.  A move took us halfway across the country.  An injury uncovered a shattering diagnosis. Chronic illness.  The mind and body I relied on for everything were debilitated and beginning to atrophy.  

My strong is gone.

I didn’t even recognize the anxious face in the mirror.  I resented my frailty.  Sleepless nights brought dark questions I couldn’t admit in the morning.   Who am I if not strong?  How can I be enough if I can’t?  Is there anything that can’t be taken from me?

I’m in the dark.

A promise of treasure is hidden in the dark. Only there could I detect the whisper that my self-reliant noise had hidden.  Weakness positioned me to rely on the strong hand I didn’t realize I needed.   I found my name on that hand.  I don’t have to be impressive to be loved. I don’t have to be mighty to find strength.  With the stability of that hand, I fight.  Atrophied hope and flesh are finding strength as they learn to rely on a new source.

I am recovering. 

I’m enough.

I don’t have to be strong.