Strong Woman Syndrome

Many of the female patients I’ve treated often admit they don’t talk about their feelings with anyone, not even with their family members or spouse. “Is there a reason for that?” I ask. “Not really,” they say. “I just don’t want anyone to worry because I’ve always been the strong one, you know? Especially in my family.” Which means that every moment of sadness, stress, anger, frustration, grief, hurt, heartbreak or despair gets tucked into some corner of their being until their soul begins to drown.

My mom is one of these women; she would rather cut off her own arm than share her emotional distress with anyone.

Last year, my father was spending a lot of time at medical appointments for MRI’s, ultrasounds, blood work, CT scans, etc.  Each time I pressed Mami for more information, she’d say, “It’s nothing, mija, don’t worry.” When an appointment was made with an oncologist, I pressed a little more. “Mami,” I said, “por favor, tell me the truth. Don’t lie to me.” “It’s that lump behind his year, mija,” she said. “It’s nothing serious.”

But nothing serious was seriously Stage 2 cancer. A few weeks later, Papi lost his balance and fell and ended up in the hospital. I live in Boston, so I flew down several times over the course of a few months; I spoke with nurses and doctors and helped move my father from a rehab center into home hospice care once we realized there would be no radiation or chemo. I checked in with Mami every day, sometimes twice. Not once did I break down because I kept telling myself I had to be strong for everyone. Plus I didn’t want my father to die knowing that I’d fallen apart.  

The six months leading up to Papi’s death were tough, but I was getting by, what with my Strong Woman Syndrome. The symptoms of SWS are blatant denial of pain and suffering, refusal to rely on others, belief in superhuman emotional strength, difficulty caring for self, tendency to put others first, inability to ask for help or support.

I inherited much of this syndrome from my mom, who still refuses tell me how she’s really doing since Papi passed away. When I call her, she says she’s just fine and doing okay and don’t worry, mija, I’m feeling great, but I know she’s devastated and lonely.

Papi also had a hand in helping me believe I was unbreakable. With the best of intentions, he raised me to be strong and independent. No matter the problem- a car accident, a bad break up, trouble at work- he would always say, “Mija, todo tiene solucion.” He believed everything had a solution and that it was my responsibility to find it. “Don’t rely on anyone, mija. Resuelve. Figure it out.”

When our family got together to say goodbye to my father, I believed it was my responsibility to be la fuerte, the strong one, and so I kept it together and held space for everyone else. When I got back to work, I told everyone I was doing fine and feeling okay and it’s hard but I’m glad he’s in peace.

Strong Woman Syndrome has served many purposes in my life and has kept me resilient through some hard times. But unfortunately, I didn’t develop a healthy, normal view of vulnerability. I’d gone through life viewing sadness as a character weakness that needed to be changed, a sign that something was irrevocably broken within me. But losing my father changed everything, including how I perceived myself.  

I began to experience tidal waves of sadness; moments of profound hurt that would hit me out of nowhere. I’d walk out of my workplace and break down as soon as I got in my car. I’d cry in the shower, choke up at Dunkin’ Donuts, wipe my tears as I changed into my fitness clothes at the gym. But I kept my sadness from everyone close to me, including my husband God forbid I show him an ounce of weakness. 

A few months after Papi died, my brother Raz sent me a text asking me how I was doing. “All good here, bro, I’m great!” I immediately wrote, but for once I hesitated before hitting send because I was not doing great. I was profoundly sad and hoping to disappear from the earth. I just wanted to stay in bed and had no desire to talk to anyone. My husband was the only person who figured out the gravity of my depression because I no longer had the energy to make pretend I was fine.

I deleted the text and instead told Raz the truth, that my head was in a dark place and that I was struggling with Papi’s death. Raz had also lost our father and I knew he too was suffering, but in that moment, I chose to trust him with my feelings; I trusted his ability to manage his own emotions while listening to mine. And rather than fall apart, he held a space for me and let me stay in it for as long as I needed. It was incredibly comforting and safe. A relief.

Funny how a death can bring your own life into focus. I am human and I experience a range of emotions: happiness, sadness, joy, hurt. Making pretend that I only feel the good ones is unfair to the people in my life, because every time I say I’m fine instead of I’m a mess, I’m choosing to not trust them, choosing to believe they won’t hold that space for me when in reality, I know they will. Not because they have to, but because they love me. It’s that simple.

Each time I lie to myself about how I’m doing, I’m making a terrible assumption that I need to be strong for everyone, but last I checked nobody put me in charge of the world’s emotional health.

Just my own. 

*SWS is a fictitious diagnosis, by the way.