Listen
It’s funny, isn’t it, the stories we tell ourselves. The ones passed down from generation to generation, whispered at kitchen tables, ingrained in the very air we breathe. They become facts, undeniable truths, until one day, something shifts. A tiny crack appears, letting in a sliver of light, and suddenly, the whole edifice trembles. I’ve spent a good chunk of my adult life picking at those cracks, sometimes with a gentle curiosity, other times with a pickaxe born of sheer frustration.
I remember my grandmother, bless her soul, always saying, “Don’t go out with wet hair, you’ll catch your death of a cold!” And for years, even after moving to a place where the air was warmer than a freshly baked pie, I’d still feel a little shiver of guilt if I stepped outside with damp locks. The sheer illogicality of it, the absolute lack of a biological mechanism for hair-dampness to directly cause a viral infection, never quite penetrated the deeply grooved pathways of that childhood warning. It wasn’t just my grandmother, of course. It was my mother, my aunt, even some of my primary school teachers. It was part of the collective lore, a protective chant against unseen dangers, however nonsensical. And honestly, it took me until my late twenties, after countless times going out with wet hair and being perfectly fine, to truly internalize that it was, in fact, just a myth. A quaint, harmless little lie, but a lie nonetheless.
That was a small one, an easy one to shed. Like peeling a dried sticker off a window. But then there are the bigger myths, the ones that anchor themselves deep in the bedrock of who you believe you are, or who you *should* be. The ones that dictate your worth, your path, your very capacity for joy or sorrow. These aren't just old wives' tales; they're the silent architects of entire lives. And for me, one of the most pervasive, most insidious myths was the idea of 'strength'. Not physical strength, though that was part of the cultural tapestry too, but emotional, psychological strength. The myth that to be truly valuable, truly capable, you had to be a fortress. Unyielding. Unbreakable. Always.
I grew up in a household where stoicism was practically a virtue. Tears were for private moments, if at all. Problems were to be solved, not dwelled upon. Emotions, particularly the 'negative' ones—fear, sadness, anger—were to be managed, contained, and ideally, hidden. “Suck it up.” “Be strong.” “Don’t let it get to you.” These weren't harsh reprimands; they were delivered with care, with the best of intentions, as tools for navigating a tough world. And I absorbed them, every single one, until they became not just advice, but the very operating system of my being. I built my identity around being the 'strong one'. The one who could handle anything. The one who didn't buckle under pressure. The one who, even when things were falling apart inside, presented a calm, unruffled exterior.
For a long time, this served me. Or so I thought. I was reliable. I was resilient. I pushed through difficult situations, whether it was a demanding job, a personal setback, or a painful breakup. And I never, ever let anyone see the cracks. I’d be screaming internally, my stomach tied in knots, my mind racing with anxieties, but outwardly? Cool as a cucumber. A perfectly functioning, high-achieving cucumber. People praised my composure, my ability to 'keep it together.' And that praise, that external validation, only cemented the myth deeper. It felt good. It felt like I was doing it right.
But the cost, oh, the cost was immeasurable. Building that fortress took all my energy. Maintaining it, a constant vigilance. Every slight, every failure, every moment of doubt wasn't just a challenge; it was a threat to the entire structure. I couldn’t lean on anyone because strong people didn’t lean. I couldn’t admit fear because strong people weren’t afraid. I couldn’t even acknowledge my own sadness, truly feel it, because that would be a sign of weakness, a breach in the walls. I became a master of suppression, of compartmentalization. But emotions, I learned, are like water. You can dam them up, divert them, try to dry them out, but they always find a way. They seep. They erode. They create unseen pressure points.
The first major breach came during a period of intense professional stress combined with a significant personal loss. It was like two tectonic plates grinding against each other, and my fortress, built on the myth of constant strength, was right in the middle. I remember a specific evening, sitting alone in my apartment, staring at a blank wall, feeling absolutely hollowed out. There was no anger, no sadness, just... nothing. A vast, terrifying emptiness. I couldn't cry. I couldn't even think. My brain had just, for lack of a better term, short-circuited. I was exhausted, profoundly, utterly exhausted, not just physically, but emotionally. The 'strong one' had finally run out of steam. There was nothing left to give, not even to myself.
That night, something shifted. It wasn’t a dramatic epiphany, no lightning bolt. It was more like a slow, painful awakening. The realization dawned on me that this relentless pursuit of unyielding strength wasn’t making me better; it was making me brittle. It wasn't protecting me; it was isolating me. The myth I had so devoutly believed in, the one that promised resilience and respect, had actually stripped me of my humanity, my ability to connect, and my capacity for genuine healing.
And so began the slow, messy, uncomfortable process of dismantling. It wasn’t easy. It felt like tearing off my own skin, exposing raw nerves. The first time I truly cried in front of a friend, not just a sniffle but a full-blown, ugly, snotty cry, I thought I would spontaneously combust from shame. But instead, she just held me. And the world didn’t end. In fact, it felt a little lighter. The first time I admitted to my boss that I was overwhelmed, that I needed help, I braced myself for judgment, for being seen as incapable. Instead, I got understanding, and a new strategy. It was terrifying, each small step, each admission of vulnerability, each time I allowed myself to feel the uncomfortable weight of an emotion rather than push it down.
I started to see that true strength wasn’t about never breaking; it was about acknowledging when you were broken, allowing yourself to feel it, and then finding the courage to pick up the pieces, sometimes with the help of others. It was about recognizing that leaning on someone isn’t a sign of weakness; it’s a testament to trust and connection. It’s about understanding that tears are not a failing, but a release, a natural human response to pain or even profound joy. It’s about the quiet revolution of admitting: “I don’t know,” “I’m scared,” “I need help.”
The myth of the unshakeable fortress started to crumble, replaced by something far more complex, far more real. A messy, imperfect, living structure with windows and doors, allowing light in and emotions out. A structure that could bend without breaking, that could fall and rise again, not because it was invincible, but because it had learned the grace of surrender, the power of asking, the profound strength found in vulnerability. It’s still a work in progress, this unlearning. Some days, the old programming kicks in, and I feel the urge to retreat, to build the walls back up. But then I remember the hollowness, the exhaustion, the isolation. And I choose the mess. I choose the truth. It's a far more courageous, and ultimately, a far stronger way to live.
It makes me wonder what other 'truths' I'm clinging to. What other inherited wisdoms are actually just old wives' tales, quietly dictating my existence? The world is full of them, isn't it? And the greatest adventure, perhaps, is not seeking out new lands, but continually excavating the familiar territory of our own minds, sifting through the layers of belief to find the pure, unvarnished truth that lies beneath. It's a journey, this life, of constant unlearning, of quietly, bravely, making our own revolutions.