There are a number of objective measures of physical strength. Quite often, when someone is making a comparison or thinking of what it means for an object to be “strong as steel” they are referring to tensile, compression, or yield strength. Though slightly different in their meaning, these are all measures of a point at which a substance is compromised (broken or bent or squashed) by an exertion of an outside force upon it.
We can also be referring to the physical strength of an athlete or bodybuilder. Or, among the more approachable examples of physical strength, it could mean the ability of a mother to carry her 40 pound daughter home from a play date, or of a commuter who walks or bikes miles each day.
In some cases, when we speak of strength, we can be thinking of mental strength. In one source I looked at, mental strength was defined as being able to successfully complete complex tasks while under pressure or duress. This sort of strength is very specific. Even when the world spins around you, mental strength implies an ability to remain calm and focused, and to successfully accomplish a specific goal. War generals fall in this category, as would substitute school teachers and basketball coaches.
But a funny thing has happened to how people apply the idea of strength to themselves, particularly within the context of cancer or illness.
In my work, I meet new people all the time. Mostly patients, but also the people who love them. When I first sit with a person, my agenda is simple–hear their story and understand how I might be useful as a small part of it. There are common themes that emerge, of course, but also mind-boggling diversity in what the experience of cancer is and can be, how it affects them, and what it all means.
One thing that I encounter repeatedly, almost without exception, is the concept of strength. Crying, they may say, “I am always so strong, I don’t know what’s going on”, or “I am the strong one, I never cry and now I cry all the time.” They apologize to me as if their tears are offensive or unacceptable in some way. It leads me to ask them what that means, “to be strong”? The funny thing is that their response is rarely a reference to their physical strength, though sometimes it is. More often it refers in some way to what they perceive or feel as emotional weakness, or vulnerability evidenced most readily by their tears.
This leads me to wonder, based on all of the actual definitions and references to what strength is and can be, how it is that “strength” has come to mean an absence of emotional expression, fear, or vulnerability. How shedding tears has come to be interpreted in some way as indicative of lesser strength, even weakness, when none of the definitions I encountered, in physics or general usage seem to imply that reacting honestly and with emotion to a difficult event would lead to the perception of or to actual weakness.
Now, I don’t want to mislead you here. I understand this framework. I was raised in the mid-west, where displays of emotion are difficult, embarrassing, even in some cases, dismissed or frowned upon. Midwesterners can be a stoic people. For patients, there are cultural and social factors at play that I do not want to dismiss.
But I do want to say what I say to my patients–I’ve sat with a lot of people and heard a lot of stories, and you know what? Never once, not even for a second, has it occurred to me that there was an absence of strength in the person sitting opposite me. In fact I would argue, that while we very much like dichotomous relationships–strong and weak, happy and sad, fighting or giving up–that strong and weak only stand opposite each other when we are talking about steel or concrete or wood. In the physical realm, I accept strength and weakness. In the emotional, most human realm? Not so much.
It is part of my daily work to counter and challenge the very concept of what it means to be strong, to make room for what it means to be flexible, brave, courageous, sensitive, vulnerable and human. To encourage self-compassion and kindness to one’s self.
Several months ago, I listened to a wonderful Ted Talk by Elora Hardy. She is a designer and builder of stunningly beautiful buildings in Bali made not of steel, or concrete, not titanium, but bamboo. The thing about bamboo is that in some cases, it has the same (and sometimes greater!) tensile strength as steel. It is beautiful, sustainable, and when you look at it in nature, or in Ms. Hardy’s structures, you see it’s inner art, beauty and even magic.
Think for a moment of these two substances–Steel is cold. Rigid. Stiff. Steel is inflexible and impermeable, cold and alienating. Bamboo on the other hand is flexible, green, warm in its natural light, comforting and serene. Both are “strong”, but one of these things actually bends to near breaking and bounces back. It is resistant to earthquakes and impact. I’m thinking if I could actually BE another substance, and these were my choices? I’d pick bamboo every time. It is the one I’d rather be surrounded and embraced by.
Here, we all get to make a choice. A choice between what is imposed upon us or what feels natural and right. What holds us up to self-judgment and what opens the door for self-compassion. In moments of difficulty and vulnerability, let’s be the bamboo.
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Charles says
Slowly the bamboo rises! Love it.
Terry says
Thank you for the work that you do. It is an absolute blessing to someone to talk to as a cancer patient about whatever you may be feeling as your walk your journey.’
lorelei bonet says
Terry, thank you so much for reading and for sharing with us. I appreciate it so much.
marika says
A thoroughly engaging and thoughtful comparison of strength.
Patty says
Thanks for a great post, Lorelei 🙂
lorelei bonet says
Thank you for reading, Patty!
Jose says
Great post, excellent subject and being myself a person with a couple of very weak areas I can see how easily the strength of bamboo can be preferable.