When Strength Looks Like Saying No (Even When It Hurts)

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much of myself I’ve been rebuilding while everything around me feels like it’s breaking.

I’ve been creating—writing a book, building this blog, asking hard questions—not because life is suddenly easy or calm, but because I’ve needed a place where I get to feel like me. The real me. The one who is coming through, slowly but surely, even while carrying grief, anger, and exhaustion in both hands.

My mom has dementia. Some days she’s herself. Some days she’s a stranger. And some days she’s both at once, and it leaves me emotionally shredded. She says things that aren’t true. She forgets the things I do for her. She says I didn’t help, when I did. And the worst part? She still knows exactly how to push those old emotional buttons that never stopped hurting.

I try to hold boundaries. I try not to take it personally. But sometimes she asks me for something—like taking her to dinner—and I say no. And she replies with, “Okay, I’ll find someone else who will.” And I say, “Okay.” Because that’s all I can say without falling apart.

The strength at that moment? It doesn’t feel triumphant. It feels like a quiet heartbreak. But it’s strength all the same.

And then there’s my brother. He has power of attorney. He has the legal authority to make decisions. And yet—when I express concern, when I spell out what’s happening, when I worry about my mom’s safety—I get silence. No direction. No plan. Just silence.

So I sit in it. I sit in the grief of losing my mom before she’s gone. I sit in the rage of having to carry this alone. I sit in the quiet ache of being misunderstood, even by the people who are supposed to share the weight.

And still—I write. I create. I choose myself, even when it hurts.

This blog isn’t just a hobby. It’s a lifeline. It’s a soft landing on days when everything feels too sharp. It’s a reminder that I’m still here, still building something that’s mine, even when the people around me aren’t showing up.

If you’ve ever felt like you were screaming into the void… I see you. If you’ve had to set boundaries that felt like betrayal, just to survive… I see you too. If you’re healing in the middle of the storm, not after it—you’re not alone.

Some days, strength looks like saying no.
Other days, it looks like choosing to feel everything—and still not giving up.

And tonight? Strength looks like writing this post.