He Never Said Be Strong

Strength was learned from the noise that followed every bottle hitting the counter. Years later, people called it resilience without knowing it was just a child’s way of staying safe.

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He never said be strong.
He just showed me
what it cost
to be anything else.

Strength wasn’t taught,
it was expected.
Like cleaning up blood
without mentioning the fall.
Like locking the door
before he stumbled into it again.

I watched the shape of him
in the dark,
slouched in the chair,
swaying slightly.
The kind of movement that says
he forgot again
this was a house,
not a bar.

He didn’t say be strong.
He just came home
angry at something
too far back to name,
and left that rage on the counter
next to the empties
and whatever plate
I didn’t clean right.

I was the apology
he never wanted to make.
The warning
he never gave.
The reason
he could still call himself a man
after breaking furniture
and promises
with the same hand.

He taught me strength
with threats
instead of words.
The kind that didn’t need repeating,
because the silence after them
was louder
than anything
he’d ever bothered to say.

Sometimes I think
he believed he was doing it right—
raising a boy
to be tough,
to be quiet,
to be useful.

But all I learned
was how to disappear
without leaving the room.
How to hold my breath
through dinner.
How to say I’m fine
with my back to the wall
and my fists clenched
under the table.

He never said be strong.
But he said:
Stop crying.
Man up.
You think I had it easy?

And I said nothing.
Because boys who ask
get answers they can’t live with.

He never said be strong.
But now,
when someone says I seem steady,
when they tell me I’m resilient,
I want to hand them
the silence I choked on for years.

I want to tell them
what it’s like to hold
a scream
like a secret
in your spine.
To learn strength
from the same voice
that taught you
fear.

He never said be strong.
He just never let me
be anything else.

I’ve poured everything into this. Healing Thoughts II: 33 Poems and Meditations for Emotional Renewal is up for order now. These pages carry the deepest, sharpest work I’ve done, and I can’t wait for them to be in your hands.

Thanks for staying till the end.
Most people don’t.
I notice it every time someone makes it this far. Through the noise, through the pain, through the part that asks for honesty instead of comfort. I don’t take it for granted.

Your presence keeps this alive.
If this work speaks to you, help me keep it alive. Your support covers the hours, the sound, the ink, the breath it takes to build all of this.

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