Most women show themselves as strong, independent, and completely unshakable.
They are the mirrorballs of the room — shimmering and bright,
reflecting everyone's best versions back into the light.
At school, at work, in every crowded hall,
they spin on their highest heels and stand up tall,
masking the hollow ache a tired heart conceals,
hiding the weight of all that no one feels.
They put on a show — a perfect, gleaming display —
as if the world were a stage they were born to play.
They are the quiet fighters, moving soft and slow,
carrying burdens heavy enough to break,
yet never letting the trembling show.
But if you looked beyond the grin,
you'd see the storm they hold within.
Behind the laugh, behind the eyes so bright,
there is a hurt they cover every night.
They paste on smiles like armor, worn and thin,
stitching their sorrow neatly back within.
When the party ends and the music fades to gray,
they are the ones who fall apart halfway.
The ones who weep when all the guests have gone,
who cry in silence, then rise again by dawn.
They don't know fear that fills a home at night —
how a heart can feel like glass thrown hard in a desperate fight.
They see these women radiant, whole, and healed,
never knowing what those steady smiles conceal.
They think strength means never shedding a single tear,
that strong women never tremble, never fear.
But the truth is, even the brightest mirrorball
holds a million jagged cracks beneath its gleam.
She walks a tightrope, balanced on a wire,
smiling at the crowd while fighting fires.
She gives her light to keep the darkness near at bay,
pouring herself out each and every day.
In the quiet — when the world has gone to sleep —
she finally lets herself unravel, finally weeps.
She shrinks into the silence, feeling small,
the strongest one who bears the most of all.
Strong women cry too.
Not because they are weak,
but because they have been shining just for you —
for far, far too long.
Carrying the world so others walk with ease,
breaking in the places no one sees.
So if she crumbles, let her.
If she weeps, sit near.
The strongest women still need someone here.
Written by Ashlee Marquez, Insight PH
Ashlee Marquez, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
