Where Strength Meets Surrender

tl;dr: Today I share a brief guest post from my friend Dálida Rocha. Here she reflects on how being called “strong” no longer feels like praise. True strength, she writes, is allowing grief, asking to be held, and letting go of the performance the world expects.

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A few weeks ago, I found myself in a number of conversations with women in my life. And each conversation had to do with “being strong.” I did not think this a coincidence. I saw it as the universe calling my attention to something important.

There was a refrain that repeated itself in these different conversations. My friends were speaking almost the exact same words:

I want to hear words other than:

Wow, I don’t know how you do it, you’re the strongest woman I know.

I come from a very patriarchal upbringing. And in my adult life I have made it a point to try and heal that. To notice and honor the strength of women. I do not intend to stop. But I also want to listen more closely. To get beyond simplistic binaries of strong and weak.

I have no intention of presenting myself as one of the world’s champions of women. What I know is that I am determined to live a life that addresses the way patriarchy is at work in my life.

I seek to atone for the hurt I have caused.

Dálida Rocha is one of the remarkable leaders that I have been blessed to support over what is now many years. She is a mother, a Black immigrant, a fierce activist and a woman who carries powerful medicine.

I am privileged to call her a friend.

I am grateful for her strength, her vulnerability, her wisdom and her generosity in allowing me to share her words.

Now onto Dálida’s words. My heart and prayers go out to her three children, who recently lost their father.

Where Strength Meets Surrender

Strength—the state of being physically and mentally resilient.
Independence—not living under someone else’s control.

Yes, I am strong—both physically and mentally. And yes, I value freedom & Liberation, especially within a world shaped by capitalism, abuse, and a relentless obsession with ownership: of things, of people, and then of more things. And I am human. And just because I am strong doesn’t mean I don’t long to be held, or to be guided through moments of pain and confusion.

Recently, I experienced a profound loss—the passing of my ex-husband, the father of my three beautiful children. My children loved their father beyond comprehension, and he loved them in ways that I didn’t always understand. In truth, I didn’t try to understand—I simply chose to be grateful for the love he gave them. The kind of love I may have once yearned for myself, and didn’t believe I’d ever witness in my lifetime.

Losing someone so young, so suddenly, and so publicly—in front of our children—was a kind of pain I never imagined I’d survive. And yet, as the saying goes, "You never know how strong you are until being strong is your only choice." At that moment, strength was my only option. And so I chose it—for my children, for his grieving family, for our friends. Being strong is something I know how to do and BE. It’s familiar. But this time, something shifted.

This time, I wished to hear words other than:

"You’re strong, you’ll get through this."
"You have to be strong for your kids."
"Wow, I don’t know how you do it—you’re the strongest woman I know."

There was a time when hearing those words filled me with pride. Not anymore. I want to be seen for more than just my strength. Yes, I will continue to support my children through this devastating time with everything I have. But I also want to show them that it’s okay to cry. To feel. To fall apart.

This is the moment I learned the deeper meaning of strength:

Strength is the courage to slow down and feel the pain.

It is allowing grief to move through you. It is being able to hold space for others, not to fix or erase their pain, but to simply be with it. Strength is sitting here, writing these words—even when I don’t think of myself as a writer. It is finding the bravery to share them,even as I allow perfectionism to creep in.

Strength is recognizing when well-meaning words no longer serve me, and honoring that truth with honesty and love. It is choosing to hold space for others while still setting boundaries. It is loving people where they are, while encouraging growth—with kindness.

True strength, I’ve discovered, is in creating the space to hear my own voice, to hear God’s voice, and to let others hear my cries.

To admit that I want to be held.

That I am no longer interested in performing the kind of strength the world has come to expect from me.