Latest / Still Standing: Stories of Resilience, Survival & Strength / Why Saying 'I Am Struggling' Is Harder Than Screaming in Anger | Still Standing
Transcript
- You know that moment when you’re standing in your kitchen, holding a mug of tea that has gone completely cold, and the weight of everything you’ve been carrying suddenly feels like it’s pressing against your ribs? It isn’t the shouting match with your partner or the deadline looming on your calendar that breaks you; it’s the quiet decision to finally whisper, 'I can’t do this alone.' We live in a culture that is obsessed with the aesthetic of resilience. You see it everywhere, don’t you? On social media feeds that are curated highlights of our best days, and in office cultures that reward the person who stays late, answers emails at midnight, and never seems to blink under pressure. We have equated strength with silence. We believe that if we are struggling, we are failing. And so, we perform. We put on the mask of the competent friend, the reliable employee, the calm partner. We smooth over the cracks in our armor so no one sees the rust underneath. But here is the truth that I have learned only after years of trying to be 'fine': pretending you are okay is exhausting. It takes more energy to maintain the illusion of stability than it does to simply admit that you are falling apart. When you scream in anger, at least people know where you stand. They see the fire. They see the boundary. But when you say, 'I am struggling,' you are inviting them into your vulnerability. And for many of us, especially women who have been conditioned to be caretakers and fixers, that feels far more dangerous than any outburst ever could. Take a breath with me. Let’s sit in that for a second. Why is it so hard? I think part of it is the deep-seated fear that admitting weakness will make us burdensome. We worry that if we show our scars, people will recoil. We worry that we will become too much, or not enough. I remember a few years ago, right after I left my corporate job, I was sitting in a therapist’s office feeling entirely lost. I had spent decades defining myself by my productivity, by how useful I was to other people. So when I sat there and said, 'I don’t know who I am without my job title,' I felt a surge of shame so hot it nearly burned my ears. I thought, They must think I’m lazy. They must think I’m broken. But what my therapist did, with such gentle precision, was look at me and say, 'You are not broken. You are just becoming.' That moment changed everything for me. It taught me that vulnerability is not a sign of defeat; it is a sign of trust. When we say 'I am struggling,' we are trusting the other person to hold space for us. We are saying, 'I believe you are strong enough to handle my pain.' It is a gift, really. A terrifying, trembling gift, but a gift nonetheless. Think about the last time you were angry. Really think about it. Anger is often a secondary emotion, isn’t it? It’s the bodyguard for our deeper, softer feelings. When we scream, we are usually protecting something fragile. Maybe we are afraid of being abandoned. Maybe we are terrified of being powerless. Anger gives us a sense of control. It pushes the world away. It creates distance. But saying 'I am struggling' pulls the world closer. It invites intimacy. And intimacy requires courage. I used to think that being resilient meant having thick skin. I thought it meant I could absorb criticism, stress, and sadness without showing a crack. But resilience isn’t about being impervious. It’s about being permeable. It’s about letting the light in, even when it hurts. When we refuse to admit we are struggling, we build walls. And while those walls might keep us safe from judgment, they also keep us isolated. Loneliness is the shadow side of perfection. We convince ourselves that if everyone else looks happy and successful, we must be doing something wrong because we feel this heavy, sinking dread in our chests. But we are not wrong. We are just human. And being human means we break. We bend. We need help. What did that cost you? That silence, that performance, that constant vigilance over your own emotions? The cost is high. It shows up in our bodies as tension headaches, as insomnia, as a general sense of fatigue that sleep doesn’t fix. It shows up in our relationships as resentment. Because when we pretend we are fine, we eventually resent the people who are taking advantage of our availability. We start to feel invisible. I recall a conversation I had with a close friend recently. She had been smiling through every dinner party, every phone call, every text message. But one night, she just stopped. She didn’t yell. She didn’t cry. She just looked at me across the table and said, 'I’m drowning.' And in that moment, the air between us shifted. The pretense dropped. And suddenly, we weren’t two friends comparing lives; we were two humans connecting in the dark. It was uncomfortable, yes. There was a silence afterward that felt heavy. But it was a good heavy. It was the heavy of relief. Of being seen. Of knowing that I didn’t have to carry her story alone anymore. That is the power of admission. It redistributes the weight. It reminds us that we are not islands. We are an archipelago, connected beneath the surface by currents of shared experience. Let’s reframe this. Let’s stop viewing 'I am struggling' as a confession of failure. Let’s view it as an act of leadership. When you admit you are struggling, you give others permission to do the same. You create a ripple effect. You normalize the messy, imperfect reality of being alive. In my previous life, in the boardrooms, I saw leaders who hid their uncertainties until it was too late, leading teams astray because they were too proud to ask for guidance. True leadership, true strength, is the ability to say, 'I don’t have all the answers. Help me find them.' This applies to our personal lives just as much. When we share our struggles, we build community. We turn isolation into connection. We remind each other that we are in this together. And that is where healing happens. Not in the perfection, but in the patching. Not in the hiding, but in the revealing. It is okay to not be okay. It is okay to need a hand. It is okay to ask for the rope. We are not designed to survive alone. We are designed to survive together. So let’s practice the art of asking. Let’s practice the bravery of being open. Let’s practice the radical act of being real. So, here is my invitation to you today. I want you to try something small. Something tiny. Look at one person in your life—a friend, a partner, a sibling—and tell them one thing that is hard. Just one thing. It doesn’t have to be the whole story. It doesn’t have to be the deepest, darkest secret. It can be as simple as, 'I’m feeling overwhelmed this week,' or 'I’m missing my grandmother today,' or 'I’m scared about this transition.' Notice what happens. Notice the fear that rises up. Notice the urge to take it back. And then, stay there. Stay in the discomfort. Breathe through it. See if the world ends. Spoiler alert: it won’t. Instead, you might find that the person on the other end leans in. You might find that they say, 'Me too.' You might find that the burden becomes lighter simply because it is no longer yours alone to carry. This is the quiet magic of vulnerability. It transforms isolation into solidarity. It turns shame into shared humanity. And it reminds us that we are loved not despite our struggles, but because of our willingness to face them, together. Take a breath with me. Feel the ground beneath your feet. You are safe. You are held. You are enough, exactly as you are, right now. Thank you for listening, for being here, and for being brave enough to hear yourself. Until next time, I’ll leave you with this: you don’t have to carry it all. Let someone help. Love, Marissa.