Don’t Tell Me I’m Strong… What To Say to a Mom Struggling

Don’t tell me I’m strong — one mom’s plea.

I’m just going to come right out and say it.

I’m a rock star.

That’s right. I speak for most parents of high needs kids and of other moms supporting their families during a crisis.

Even on our worst days, we’re still rock stars.

But that doesn’t mean I feel like a rock star.

What it does mean is that, even when things are crumbling around me, I’m still getting it done.

I’m still getting the laundry done (although the clothes are wrinkled).

I’m still getting the kids off to school (although they may be late).

I’m still getting the house picked up (although there are dishes still in the sink).

I’m still getting the bills paid (although one or two may be late).

I’m still running this house. And even if it isn’t running the way I would imagine, I’m still getting it done.

I’m still getting it done in the face of this adversity.

In face of this trial.

In face of this crisis.

That’s right. I said crisis.

Because sometimes life is a crisis.

It was a crisis when we were struggling to figure out why our son was a crying terror and it sent our family into a tailspin.

It was a crisis when we had to fight the school and eventually got our own outside help to support a child struggling with severe dyslexia and ADHD.

And it’s a crisis now.

And while I am so fortunate to have many supportive people in my life who give me the courage to face the new day, there is one thing I cannot stand to hear…

“You are strong.”

It feels like a punch to the gut.

Don’t tell me I’m strong.

I know I’m strong.

Despite the fact that other adults in my life aren’t pulling their weight, I’ve pulled myself up by the bootstraps and soldiered on… multiple times in my life, even.

But don’t tell me I’m strong.

Telling me I’m strong is like telling me I don’t have any other option.

Telling me I’m strong is like telling me I’m not allowed to feel weak inside.

Telling me I’m strong is like telling me that the pain I feel isn’t worthy of my time.

Telling me I’m strong is like telling me that I’m supposed to be able to do this on my own.

Telling me I’m strong is like telling me I’m don’t get to have my eat-the-whole-damn-tub-of-ice-cream-while-sobbing meltdown.

Telling me I’m strong takes away my power to decide when I need to break down, when I need to feel sorry for myself and when I need to put on my big girl panties.

The fact is… I DON’T WANT TO BE STRONG.

And sometimes I downright resent it.

I don’t get the luxury of falling apart when everything is around me.

I don’t get the luxury of falling apart when everyone else is around me.

Because someone has to be the grown up.

And it has to be me.

So don’t tell me I’m strong.

I don’t want to be strong.

I don’t want to be responsible.

I don’t want to be carrying the burden.

But I am… and it’s not a choice.

It’s just something I must do… for my children, for my family as a whole, for my sanity and knowing that I did the best I could when the chips were down.

Failure doesn’t phase me.

Knowing I didn’t do everything possible does.

So don’t tell me I’m strong.

Don’t tell me who or what I am. 

Because every fiber in my body is weak and tired and exhausted and strained.

I know I’m strong because I pull out the tiger in me and make it happen… even if I have to reach right down to the last bit of energy in my pinky toe.

Because that’s what I do.

I always have.

But let me decide what I am.

Let me decide I’m strong one day and beaten down the next.

Because only by being allowed to be weak or vulnerable or downright failing can I also allow myself to ask for help when I really need it.

 

What You Can Say To Someone in a Crisis

So what can you say to someone in a crisis that will make them feel empowered and supported?

Try these comments on for size.

 

Instead of telling me I’m strong…

Tell me how much courage I have.

Tell me you believe in me.

Tell me you recognize how hard I’m trying.

Tell me you know this isn’t easy for me.

Tell me you are sending as much strength and good karma as you can my way.

Tell me you’re picking up the kids for the afternoon.

Tell me you are here for me day, noon or night (and mean it right down to your core).

Tell me I am the Woman Warrior.

Tell me I am the Woman Who Runs with Wolves.

Tell me I am the hero of my own story and you believe I will prevail!

xo Jenny

Be sure to hear from other special needs parents, too!

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