At first, I wore it like a badge.
Like being the strong one was something sacred.
And maybe it was.
But it was also a sentence.
Because once they think you’re built for it,
they stop checking if you’re okay.

You learn how to be good at holding things:
other people’s grief, expectations,
their mistakes, their shame, their needs.
You learn how to say “it’s fine” when it’s not.
You learn how to show up even when you have nothing left.
You become excellent at survival.
So excellent, in fact,
that no one thinks to ask if you’re tired of surviving.

But here’s the thing no one tells you:
Crowns aren’t light.
Even invisible ones.
Especially invisible ones.

They slip down your spine
and settle in your bones.
They change how you sit, how you sleep,
how much silence you can take before it turns dangerous.

I’m proud of what I’ve carried.
But I’m angry too.
Angry at how much I’ve had to carry.
Angry that everyone assumes I’m okay because I make it look easy.
Angry that strength has become a costume I can’t take off
without someone calling it weakness.

I’ve tried to put the crown down.
But no one else reaches for it.
No one steps forward.
They just blink, confused, like I’ve forgotten my place.
Like I am the crown now.

And I don’t know how to undo that.

I don’t know how to be soft anymore
without also feeling guilty.
I don’t know how to ask for help
without sounding like I’m letting everyone down.

So I keep wearing it.
Keep nodding.
Keep carrying.

Because no one knows what to do
when the strong one says
I don’t want to be this anymore.

So it stays on.
And so it stays heavy.
And so it stays.