On Sunday, I went to the tip with my mum. Classic weekend ritual when she’s visiting. Yes, there really is that much rubbish in my house. We always seem to end up there, like it’s our family pilgrimage site, only holier because it smells faintly of old carpet and stale MDF.

This time, we were getting rid of a whole bloody shower enclosure. One of those big, awkward, glass and metal contraptions that somehow get heavier the more people are watching. As I wrestled it out of the car, a couple of the guys working there wandered over and offered help in that way that toes the line between chivalrous and “aww, look, she’s trying”. Which annoys me for a whole other host of reasons.

I smiled, said “I’ve got it”, and proceeded to hoist the thing out myself like some stubborn, bin yard Wonder Woman. Which I am, by the way. Mega strong. But that’s beside the point.

As I threw it over the edge, in that deeply satisfying way you do at tips, I thought I broke a nail. The pain was a lot, and I couldn’t show it with the guys still watching (looking impressed, I like to think). As soon as I got back to the car, I yanked my gloves off and thankfully, no nail casualties. But even if I had broken one, what would I have proven? That I’m strong? Independent? That I can single handedly dismantle both a bathroom and the patriarchy?

At the time, it was just another chore. But today, in conversation with someone, I had a different kind of “tip moment”. Less physical. More emotional.

I was talking about my trauma. Sometimes I just trauma dump. Nothing new. I’ve become an expert at glazing over the details, just sharing enough that they understand, without triggering myself. But every time I tell the story, even with all the edits, I can feel the shift in people. Like they suddenly see me as delicate. Something to tiptoe around. Something that needs managing.

People look at me like I’m a cracked vase. Still standing, but only just. Like I might fall apart if they ask the wrong question or blink too loudly.

And I hate it.

Suddenly I wondered if this is what I’ve been trying to outrun all this time. Not the trauma itself, but the way people look at you once they know.

I’ve been doing this for years. Saying I’m okay. Smiling. Making jokes. Powering through like I’m not dragging a wheelie bin full of emotional debris with both arms, one leg, and my teeth.

Not because I don’t need help. But because if I accept help, does that mean I am broken? That I’m confirming their suspicions?

And here’s the maddening irony. In trying to prove I’m fine, I might actually be wearing myself out.

Where’s the line between strength and pride? Between independence and isolation? Between resilience and repression?

Do I decline help because I don’t need it, or because I don’t want to be seen as needing it?

There’s this weird pressure, especially on women and especially on survivors, to be both strong and untouchable. To rise above, be inspiring, and also never cry in public or admit you’re struggling.

We’re praised for being “empowered,” but only if we don’t look messy. Asking for help is supposedly brave, until you actually do it. And suddenly, you’re a liability. A cracked vase.

And let’s be honest. Society loves a “strong woman” as long as she’s convenient. Efficient. Quiet. Smiling with teeth, never tears.

But maybe being “not broken” doesn’t mean going it alone. Maybe the strongest thing I can do is say, “Yeah, you know what? I’ll take the help”. Not because I’m helpless, but because carrying it all, all the time, is exhausting. And unnecessary.

Maybe the real power move is not always showing my strength, but trusting that it’s there even if someone else sees my softer bits.

Next time I’m at the tip with my mum, and we’re wrangling some oversized, ridiculous object into a skip, I might just let the guys help. Not because I can’t do it. But because I don’t have to keep proving that I can.

And maybe that’s what healing actually looks like. Not being unbreakable, but being real. Messy. Whole. And still showing up anyway.

Let me know your thoughts!