The People Who Need You Don't Always See Your Pain
The People Who Need You Don’t Always See Your Pain
This week marks thirty-six years since my nine-year-old daughter, Alisha, was struck by a car while riding her bicycle.
I’m not crying. I’ve not fallen apart. I’m still working, answering questions, taking care of responsibilities, driving where I need to drive, and doing what needs to be done.
From the outside, I probably look fine. But internally, I’m tired.
Grief doesn’t always look like tears. Sometimes it looks like a woman standing at the kitchen counter making another meal. Sometimes it looks like answering one more email, paying another bill, or getting back into the car because someone needs a ride. Sometimes grief looks remarkably capable.
People often tell grieving women how strong we are. They mean it as a compliment. But sometimes being called strong feels like one more thing we’re expected to carry.
If I keep doing, people assume I’m able to do more. If I remember the appointments, meet the deadlines, earn the income, and take care of the needs around me, no one sees what those ordinary tasks are costing me.
I’m working full-time, yet my family continues to need things from me. Their needs are real, and I love them. But love doesn’t make me limitless.
That’s a difficult truth for many women to admit. We don’t want to sound selfish, ungrateful, or resentful. We know other people depend on us, so we keep moving. Often, we don’t even know how to explain what is happening inside us.
How do you say, “I can do this, but today it is heavier than it looks”?
Anniversary grief can be especially deceptive. Even when our minds are occupied with everyday life, our bodies and hearts remember. We may feel unusually weary, distracted, irritable, or tender before we consciously connect those feelings to the date.
Thirty-six years have passed, but a mother’s heart doesn’t measure time by the calendar. My life continued, but my love for Alisha didn’t expire. Neither did the memory of the day everything changed.
In the middle of this tiring week, my cousin remembered.
She sent me a gift acknowledging the anniversary of Alisha’s accident. It was a precious gesture, not simply because of the gift itself, but because someone else recognized that this week might be difficult for me. I did not have to explain the date, defend my feelings, or ask to be remembered.
For a moment, someone saw beneath all my doing.
That type of kindness doesn’t remove grief, but it lightens the loneliness of carrying it. It says, “I remember her. I remember what happened. I remember that you still live with this loss.”
Galatians 6:2 says, “Share each other’s burdens, and in this way obey the law of Christ” (NLT). Sharing someone’s burden doesn’t always require a grand gesture. It might mean remembering a difficult date, sending a card, delivering a favorite treat, offering a ride, or simply asking, “What can I take off your plate this week?”
Sometimes the strongest-looking person in the family is the one who most needs someone to notice.
Perhaps you’re that person today. You’re still functioning, so everyone assumes you’re fine. You keep showing up, so they keep asking. You love your family deeply, but you’re tired of being the one who holds everything together.
Please remember that having limits doesn’t mean you love anyone less. Needing rest doesn’t make you weak. Asking for help is not a failure of faith or character. Even Jesus stepped away from the needs of the crowds to rest and pray.
Perhaps we also need to become more honest with the people who love us. They may not see our pain because we’ve become so skilled at hiding it behind competence. We can gently say, “This is a difficult week for me. I need you to ask less of me and help more.”
And if someone we love is carrying a deep loss, let’s not assume that a dry face means an unbroken heart. Look beyond the accomplishments. Remember the dates when life changed. Don’t wait to offer specific help.
The people who need us may not always see our pain. But God does. He sees the weariness beneath our strength, the memories beneath our routines, and the love that continues long after everyone else thinks enough time has passed.
This week, God reminded me of that through my cousin. Her kindness did not erase the heaviness, but it helped me feel seen. Sometimes that is the most precious gift one person can give another.
Prayer:
Lord,
You see the pain I carry even when no one else notices. Give me the courage to acknowledge my limits and ask for the help I need. Show me how to notice and gently lighten the hidden burdens carried by others.
Amen
For You:
Have you ever looked strong on the outside while carrying pain or exhaustion inside? What helped you feel seen?
