We often view strength as a state of being, as though crossing a transcendental threshold from which there’s no return. Reflecting on moments I appeared “strong,” I realize that strength was not an inherent trait, but a choice—a conscious act rather than a default aspect of my being. Like lifting weights for the first time… painful. But once past the inertia, it’s manageable. Strength is not a being I argue, rather it’s a series of choices—a promise made to yourself for a second, then a second more, and then one more. It doesn’t require the mythical lineage of Hercules or hyper-masculinity; the only thing it requires is dedication to your promise, the one you made a second ago.
Strength often is dismissed as just a “way of being,” implying an innate quality that excuses us from embodying it if we weren’t “born with it.” A notion that I believe is only popular because it’s convenient—it’s easier to internalize this excuse, to resign to being the victim, doing nothing until the pain subsides. But to acknowledge the pain, feel it deeply, and still move forward despite the tightness in your breath—that is something special. It’s a grace. And it gets rewarded eventually.
Recently, I came across a book titled Şefkat Korkaklara Göre Değil, meaning “Compassion is Not for the Coward” At first, the title felt absurd, knowingly controversially titled and crafted to attract readers with a fanatic statement. But upon reflection, I began to understand… We categorize emotions as either “hard” or “soft,” and even those with the most fluid perspectives tend to get trapped in this polarization.
Ironically, it’s often the “soft” feelings that demand the greatest strength to pursue. I’m not talking about passivity, which is quite different from the strength required by gentler emotions. Compassion, for instance—how many of us truly embody it? I recently learned that (which I’m aware is quite late to learn after 25 years on this planet Earth) compassion isn’t mere pity. It’s not some specialized doctrine to only be applied to children; rather, it’s first and foremost an act of self-acceptance—a gesture that one must first extend to oneself.
Much like strength, compassion is a choice, a decision to repeatedly choose oneself regardless of the externalities. It’s challenging.. it’s not taught in school.. and if your parents are not therapists it’s not discussed at dinner tables either.
Six months ago, my mentor—the one and only person who truly knows my unguarded self—called me a ‘flower in concrete,’ symbolizing strength despite everything, despite my “being”. I was so moved by this resemblance that I even created a Spotify playlist titled Flower in Concrete : ) (I create one for everything honestly). It contradicted my idea of myself as “soft” and “docile”. Yet soon I realized my mentor wasn’t referencing my gentle demeanor. She was referring to my choices—to guard my heart, to embrace the “hardness” of compassion, and to choose myself over and over and over despite it all.
This writing is a reminder that strength does not mean showing fascinating progress without any falling apart. Strength is an act. It’s not a linear regression. It’s not a math equation (God I wish it was). Yet to be honest, strength it’s a wavering, zigzagging line of confusion. Sometimes, it’s the exhilaration lifting you into a hyper state; other times, it’s hopelessness that you’re convinced will never pass. Yet strength means to centralize yourself, no matter how far apart the vertices of the zigzagging line may be. You can embody strength like Hercules, effortless and natural (if you are born that lucky), or like a flower through concrete—gentle, yet unwavering, taking it second by second, and knowing when it all settles down; there will be a beautiful and unexpected little flower upon the road.