I can’t help but think of the conversation we had the other day. I keep seeing you right in front of me, with tears in your eyes and your jaw clenched. You smiled, but I could’t help thinking that your smile didn’t match your body language.
You told me about the journey you’ve walked so far with your son. The diagnosis in utero, how it shattered your happy pregnancy bubble. The surgeries that followed so soon after his birth, how you were told he might not live past the first day, then the first week, then perhaps 6 months, but here he is, 5 years later. He is doing well, just started school, and enjoys playing with friends. He seems to be doing well, yet what I see in you is not relaxed. You’re proud of him, and you wouldn’t have it any other way, yet you talk about not being able to sleep, startling with the phone rings, not knowing how to relate to your peers, the strained relationship with your partner, and your family, who don’t seem to get it.
You’ve had to be SO strong, for so long. You’ve had to make decisions no parent should have to make, and you’ve grieved the loss of the future you may not have with your precious little boy. It was one long string of hospital stays, procedures, medication, sleepless nights, feeding issues, growth issues, delayed developmental milestones, worries, the ‘whys’, the expectations….
And now, you’ve forgotten how to relax, fully. How to let go of the long list of ‘what not to forget’, and ‘what if’s’. Somehow, the world around you has given you the impression that you need to look strong, like you’ve got it all together, but tell me: What is your body telling you? If you let it speak to you, what does it say?
I can’t help but notice…
How you tell your story.
Calmly. Thoughtfully. Factual. Sometimes even with a smile. You talk about it in a way that sounds manageable.
But when I sit with you, I notice your body.
Your jaw is often clenched.
Your shoulders don’t fully drop.
You don’t breathe deeply. You’ve been strong for a very long time.
Strong in ways you didn’t choose, but had to become.
Strong because there was no room to fall apart.
Strong because love asked for everything, and you gave it.
And being strong like that — for months, for years — does something to your body.
You haven’t done anything wrong.
But your nervous system learned it had to stay alert. On watch. Responsible. Ready.
Even now.
Your breathing stayed shallow for a long time, and it became harder to think clearly.
Harder to fully be in the moment.
Harder to rest — even when life looked more settled from the outside.
I wonder how often you judge yourself for that.
Thinking you should be coping better.
Wondering why you can’t just relax.
Comparing yourself to others who seem less affected.
And I wonder how much it hurts when people read this as you being overreactive, difficult, or overprotective — when what I see is a body that learned it had to keep going, no matter what.
Sometimes that judgement turns inward.
And then asking for help feels impossible.
Receiving support feels awkward.
Friendship feels complicated.
Not because you don’t want connection —
but because somewhere along the way, needing support started to feel like failure.
I want to say something clearly.
Strength isn’t pushing things away.
Strength is stopping long enough —
to take vulnerability by the hand,
giving it enough courage to open up.
Because when that happens, even a little, something shifts.
Your shoulders drop.
You relax enough to breathe deeply.
And sometimes tears come — not as a breakdown, but as release.
Not because you’re falling apart.
But because your body no longer has to hold everything on its own.
There is nothing weak about this.
There is nothing wrong with you.
You’ve carried a great deal for a long time.
So I want to ask you something — and I’m asking because I care enough to listen:
What has your body been holding for so long?
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