I Spent 50 Years Roaring.
Then I Learned What Strength Actually Is.
The thought came to me yesterday while I was standing in my kitchen, half-dressed, hair doing whatever it wanted, waiting for the kettle to boil.
Out of nowhere, the old soundtrack from my girlhood floated up — Helen Reddy singing “I am woman, hear me roar.”
God, that song got into my bloodstream before I even had hips.
I didn’t just love it. I built a whole personal religion out of it.
From the time I was a teenager, I didn’t walk into rooms. I marched. I took up space. I met everything—marriage, motherhood, money, heartbreak, strangers, bosses, men who didn’t deserve my time—with that invisible anthem blasting behind me.
I am woman. Hear me roar.
And roar I did.
Sometimes the roar was earned. Sometimes it was armor. Sometimes it was me being far too dramatic for the moment.
There were years when the roar arrived before I did—when I led with fire even when a whisper would’ve done the job.
Standing there in my kitchen yesterday, I suddenly felt the ghost of that roar in my body.
A tightness in the chest. A little lift in the chin. That old readiness to defend myself even though absolutely nothing was happening.
No threat. No conflict. No man disappointing me. No daughter pulling away.
Just me and a kettle.
And that’s when something inside me shifted.
The tightness—that familiar “prepare yourself, Monica” stance—loosened. It was so subtle I almost missed it.
I realized I wasn’t actually planning my day.
I was bracing for my day.
Bracing for the no-contact daughter to stay distant. Bracing for him not to text. Bracing for life to do what it used to do—pull the rug.
Even the thought of plans made my chest grip.
But when I caught myself in that old roar energy—that stance of independence so fierce it bordered on comic—something softened in me.
Softened deep.
It felt like someone opened a little window behind my ribs and let the air in.
Not an epiphany. Not a breakthrough.
Just a tiny release I didn’t even know I’d been withholding from myself.
And I swear, for the first time in my life, I understood what “allowing” actually feels like.
Not the spiritual platitude version I’ve quoted for years. But the physical version.
Allowing wasn’t about surrendering control.
It was about not bracing for impact.
It was about unclenching. It was about letting life and people and love come toward me without meeting them with a roar.
I thought strength was the roar.
But in that moment, barefoot in my kitchen, listening to the kettle click off, I understood something new:
Strength is the softening.
Strength is letting my daughter find her way back when the time is right without collapsing into grief.
Strength is letting him show up how he shows up without taking score.
Strength is walking through my own day whether anyone joins me or not.
Strength is allowing.
After a lifetime of roaring, I finally felt the beauty in lowering my voice.
And baby… it was quiet. It was simple.
And it was strong in a way I never knew strength could be.
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Oh Monica - I too loved that song! I felt emboldened by it. I also roared for many decades - I became a lawyer so that nobody could f*ck with me. About a year ago, I realized I was always "braced" and as friendly as I was, I was always leary of people, knowing they couldn't be trusted or counted on. That is shifting for me now and if feels so good. Your piece resonated so much with me.