The Secret Lives of Strong Women
Before she was my mother, she was a girl who never got to be soft. I'm learning to see her now — not just as strong, but as human.
The world sees my mother as a strong woman.
And they’re not wrong.
She raised two children almost entirely on her own. My father was around — technically. But mostly to judge, to bruise, to play god in a house where we needed gentleness more than control. My mother paid our school and college fees. She took us to school on her two-wheeler scooter, weaving through traffic with a tired spine and a determined face. She has a government job. Still goes to work every day, whether it’s raining or unbearably hot, or her back aches from years of holding everything together
She was — she is — the kind of strong people admire out loud, often without asking what it costs to be that way.
And for a long time, I only saw her as “my mother.”
My mother who was sometimes angry, sometimes soft, and sometimes so emotional it scared me.
My mother who blackmails me into “giving her a grandchild” before it’s too late.
My mother who would still, even now, insist on paying for everything when we went shopping — as if my adult salary was just a phase, and her role as provider was forever.
My mother who cried and cooked and worked and endured and kept going, even when nothing felt worth going toward.
But now that I’m older, I see her differently.
Not just as my mother.
But as a woman. A girl, even. A person with a whole life before I ever existed.
A little girl who never really got to be little — who probably had to grow up too fast, learn to sacrifice early, and tuck away softness like a luxury she couldn’t afford.
A young wife who never got to have romance. Who didn’t get to be loved gently, or looked at like she was magic.
A woman who had to stay — not because she couldn’t leave, but because women like her don’t.
They adjust.
They survive.
They carry.
She stayed with a man who drank too much, yelled too easily, and never quite learned how to love without hurting the people who needed him whole.
This may sound like my father is a villain. He’s not. He has his own wounds — many of his own making. But this isn’t his story.
This is hers.
The older I get, the more I wonder:
Is she aware of what she’s carrying?
Does she know how her body speaks in headaches and mood swings and the need to control things that are out of her control?
Would she ever seek help? Would she even believe she deserves it?
Because women like her… they don’t get therapy.
They get through.
And they’re not alone.
I see her in so many women.
The ones who survive by default. The ones who never got to break down.
The ones who have no choice but to be strong — because no one ever showed up when they were soft.
The colleague who comes to work two days after a miscarriage.
The friend who holds space for everyone else’s pain while ignoring her own.
The woman on the train, eyes wide open, staring out but looking nowhere.
The mother, the daughter, the house help, the breadwinner, the backup plan.
We see them every day. But we don’t see them.
Not really.
We don’t see the exhaustion behind their sharp words.
The loneliness behind their laughter.
The fear that lives just beneath their control.
We call them strong.
We say “you’re amazing, how do you do it all?”
And they smile. Because what else can they do?
But strength, for so many women, isn’t power. It’s armor.
It’s survival.
It’s muscle memory.
It’s “I’m used to it” when what they mean is “I’m tired.”
It’s breaking down in private, then getting up and making tea for the guests.
I used to think that was strength.
Now I think it’s what happens when no one gives you a safe place to fall apart.
The world loves strong women — but only the kind who don’t make it uncomfortable.
Only the ones who smile through it.
Only the ones who don’t cry in public.
Only the ones who keep going.
And maybe — just maybe — it’s time we stop romanticizing that kind of strength.
Maybe it’s time we make room for their softness too.
Even if they’ve forgotten what it feels like.
P.S. If you were raised by a strong woman, or are trying to unlearn the need to be one at all times — this is for you. No applause here. Just understanding.
With love and warm hugs,
Ananya