Crying: A Beautiful Expression of Strength and Being Human

by | Mar 13, 2024 | Life in General

Why I Cry.

Sometimes, I cry. Not for any one reason, but for a thousand tiny whispers of pain and longing that echo through the silence of my soul. 

I cry in the quiet corners of my world – alone on my pillow, hugging it for comfort. In the shower, where the cascading water silences my sobs; on the floor, where I feel the earth’s steadiness beneath me; and yes, even sitting on the toilet, a place of solitude in the chaos of daily life. 

Today, I cried in all those places. I cried because life, in all its beauty and brutality, feels overwhelmingly hard at times.

As a single mom of three, juggling the dreams of building a business with the reality of daily life, the weight feels crushing. Two dogs, one old and ailing, demanding my care, and a high-maintenance cat, alongside a house that never quits needing. Amidst this, I’m haunted by the feeling that I’m never doing enough.

I cry for my oldest, on the brink of adulthood and fatherhood, his heart caught between yearning for independence and the fear of the unknown. Watching him navigate these vast changes fills me with a mix of pride and fear, excitement and loss. 

Is he ready to leave the nest? Is the foundation I’ve built strong enough? Am I ready for him to leave the nest? I am definitely not ready. 

Readiness seems a distant dream. The truth is, readiness is a mirage, always shimmering on the horizon, always just out of reach. 

I cry for my youngest, my little guy grappling with life’s sharp edges and the shadows cast by others’ expectations. I cry because I can’t smooth out his path as quickly or as painlessly as I wish I could. The fear for his future, for what lies ahead, knots in my stomach, a constant companion.

I cry for my daughter, my only girl, as she enters her turbulent teenage years, her world a mix of wonder and confusion. My heart is full, remembering my own trials and triumphs at her age. I worry if I’m guiding her enough, if I’m showing her the strength, grace, and resilience she needs. As she faces her path, filled with light and shadows, I question whether I’m preparing her enough for the journey ahead.

These tears, they’re not just droplets of sadness; they’re prisms through which the spectrum of my love, my hopes, my fears, and my dreams for my children are reflected. They speak to the universal dance of letting go and holding on, a rhythm that every parent must learn, albeit with a heavy heart. In these moments of vulnerability, I find a connection to every mother, every father, who has stood where I stand, who has cried these same tears of love and fear.

I cry because I am scared and have no clue what the heck I am doing.

I cry for the absence of my parents. My mom and dad, both gone, leaving a void filled with unsaid words and unspent moments. Even with our complicated pasts, how I yearn for just one more conversation, a fleeting chance to say, “I love you,” to hear their voices echo back through time. 

I cry for the moments my mom will never share with her great-granddaughter. In every tear, there’s a whisper of heartache for the bond they won’t physically share. I cry because beneath the sorrow lies a comforting belief—she’s with us in spirit, a silent guardian over Lili, intertwining their souls in an invisible quilt of unseen love and legacy.

I cry as I watch my once invincible grandmother confined to a wheelchair, a stark reminder of life’s relentless march. Our family is at a crossroads, with one generation fading as another rises, and I’m terrified of not living up to the immense legacy left for us to carry.

I cry as loneliness wraps its cold fingers around my heart. Even as an introvert who cherishes solitude, the craving for true companionship, a solid foundation built with someone to share the burdens and the joys, is unwavering.  I cry as I battle between my independence and need for commitment. I cry for a love that feels non-existent as dreams of an extended family grow more distant with each passing day. 

I cry at the sight of crimson, a monthly reminder of secret dreams unfulfilled. Quietly, deeply, I yearn for creation, for love so profound to manifest in life with the man who holds my heart. In every tear, I silently pray for love to bloom into being, for two hearts to forge a new life from our raw, unbridled passion. I cry as I ask God if this denial is a blessing I am ignoring. I cry as I beg God for this gift. 

I cry, because my business, my passion, feels like an uphill battle against invisibility, my voice drowned out in the vastness of the universe. Am I even making a difference? 

I cry because sometimes I want to give up.  

I cry over the complexity we weave into our lives, the needless pain we inflict on ourselves and others. I cry for relationships frayed by time and distance, for the brother I miss, for the cousins who’ve become strangers. Would they know how deeply I care, how much I wish to mend those tattered ties? 

I cry because sometimes the darkness within threatens to swallow me whole, questioning my worth, my purpose, and my very right to be. I cry because the high road is a lonely path, because feeling invisible hurts, and because sometimes I feel too much in a world that seems to feel too little.

I cry over the pain inflicted by others, bewildered by how some can cause such needless hurt.

I cry because being the “strong one” has it’s limitations.  

But I cry, too, because it’s in these moments of utter vulnerability that I find a strange kind of strength. I cry because it’s human to feel, to hurt, to hope. I cry because, in the act of crying, I am reminded of the depth of my own resilience, of my capacity to love, to dream, to stand back up, no matter how many times life knocks me down.  I cry because it’s okay to not be okay. I cry because I am human.

So, to you reading this, who finds yourself in tears, know this: your tears are a testament to your strength, to your humanity. You are not alone in your crying. In our shared vulnerability, we find connection, understanding, and the courage to face another day. Sometimes, we must cry. And that is not just okay; it’s profoundly beautiful.


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