Strong, But at What Cost?

 The kids are on holiday, and for the first time in a long while, I find myself completely alone in Lausanne. I had a clear vision for this time: I would focus on my professional goals, finally get the flat in order, and take control of the space and time I never usually have. It was supposed to be productive, transformative even. But that vision never materialised.

The first weekend, I barely left the bed. I slept. Deeply. Desperately. I told myself I just needed a bit of rest, and I’d begin everything next weekend. But the next weekend came—and nothing changed. No progress. No productivity. The flat remained untouched. My personal goals remained ideas floating somewhere far away.

And yet, strangely, the only place where I did feel fully alive was at work. In my professional space, I’ve been thriving. Energetic, enthusiastic, fully present. I’ve poured myself into it with intensity and passion, and in return, I’ve felt accomplished. Fulfilled, even.

That contradiction haunts me: if I’m so tired, how can I have so much energy for work?

Maybe it’s because when my calendar is packed, when I’m in constant motion, I don’t have to face what’s really going on inside. The silence becomes too loud when there’s nothing to distract me.

Perhaps I don’t want to admit the truth to myself. That I’m tired—not just from parenting or work—but from everything. From the emotional weight of being the strong one. I’ve taken pride in being a “strong woman,” a “strong person,” someone who never breaks. But strength can become a prison. It can silence your own truth.

So instead, I tell myself a socially acceptable story: “Of course I’m tired, I have two small kids.” It’s true, no one would question that. But it’s not the whole truth.

The real question I avoid is: Am I doing all this to prove something?

Am I warning the world not to mess with me? Am I trying to show my NEX that he didn’t win—that he didn’t break me? Is this constant effort, this relentless forward motion, a way of protecting my dignity? I don’t want to appear damaged. I don’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart.

So I push. Even when I’m physically and emotionally drained. Even when every fiber in me wants to stop. I push harder. I speed up. I accomplish more.

But at what cost?

I am exhausted.

When the kids aren’t home, the apartment feels hollow. I feel hollow.

And when I’m not doing something for them, I feel like I’m doing nothing at all.

They’ve become my purpose—my heartbeat.

Because in the darkest moments, they were the light. They needed me. And I was all they had.

We’ve gone through so much together, and our shared struggle has formed a bond that defines my very being.

This attachment—this fierce devotion—was born not just from love, but from survival. From knowing that no one else was going to catch us if we fell.

But now, in this rare silence, I ask myself: What next?

How long can I keep going like this?

How long can I deny my own needs just to protect an image of strength?

How long before the exhaustion becomes too much to carry?

I don’t have the answers yet.

But admitting I have the questions—that’s a beginning.

Letting the silence speak, just for a moment, is a kind of strength too.