Every family, every community, every circle seems to assign the title of "the strong one" to someone. That one person who never breaks down. The one who always seems to have it together. The one who always picks the calls, shows up, sends help, carries the burden, offers the wisdom. They are the rock, the reliable one, the one people say, "Nothing fazes them."
In African society, particularly, this strength is revered—almost to a fault. It is praised in proverbs, in songs, in Sunday sermons. "Be like so-and-so." "You must not show weakness." "You are the pillar of the family." These sayings become the invisible chains that lock the breadwinner into a role that no longer feels like an honor, but a life sentence.
The myth of the strong one is dangerous not because it praises resilience, but because it ignores the humanity behind the performance.
Strength is no longer seen as endurance; it becomes perfection. No room for failure. No allowance for breakdowns. No space for confusion. And the breadwinner—already overwhelmed with financial, emotional, and social demands—is expected to wear a smile through it all.
The pressure is immense.
To the world, the strong one is living the dream. They've "made it." But behind closed doors, their lives are often in chaos. They cry in bathrooms. They stare blankly at ceilings at night. Their phones ring endlessly—not with words of love, but with demands. School fees. Rent. Emergencies. Medical bills. Business capital. Favors. Bailouts.
Sometimes, the strong one is battling personal loss—a failed relationship, health challenges, depression, or even suicidal thoughts. But they can't tell anyone. They can't afford to look weak. Because the moment they show vulnerability, the people who once leaned on them begin to pull away.
It is a lonely road.
And it is a lie.
The world doesn't see how much the strong one gives up. Their personal dreams are often postponed. Their joys are rationed. Their romantic relationships suffer, because they're too exhausted to love fully or be loved properly. They keep people at arm's length. They struggle to rest, fearing that the moment they stop, everything will fall apart.
And when they finally do break down, the reactions are often cruel: "Why didn't you say something?" "Are you not the strong one?" "Just pray, you'll be fine."
There is no rescue for the rescuer.
The myth is that strength means not needing help. But true strength is knowing when to ask for it.
The emotional culture must change. Breadwinners—whether male or female—must be allowed to feel. To be tired. To not have all the answers. To say, "I'm not okay." Society must normalize checking on the one everyone assumes is okay. We must normalize compassion, not just expectation.
Family members must also unlearn toxic dependence. The breadwinner is not God. They are not immune to suffering. They should not be made to feel like failure is betrayal. They should not be treated as less than when they fall short. The same way they lift others must be the same way others are willing to lift them.
Communities must create support systems—mental health access, financial education, emotional safety nets. Not every call should be a request. Not every visit should be about lack. Sometimes, breadwinners just want to be held. They want to hear, "You've done well." They want to feel seen.
Because no one is endlessly strong.
Every strong person is one silent scream away from collapse. And if no one listens, if no one helps them remove the weight they've been carrying for years, they eventually disappear—emotionally, mentally, or physically.
Let the myth die. Let empathy live.
Let the breadwinner breathe again—not just for the sake of others, but for their own soul.