Editorial Update: Tears Are Not Weakness, They Are Strength in Liquid Form

Thank you for being here. How is 2025 treating you so far?

If you’re anything like me, this year has already felt like a whirlwind of emotions, and we’re only a few weeks in. The world seems heavier than ever—with chaos, uncertainty, and so many of us carrying personal battles behind closed doors. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? And yet, in the middle of this storm, we often forget to allow ourselves to feel what’s happening. To stop, to breathe, and to acknowledge that yes, this is hard.

I used to believe that crying made me weak.

The number of times in the last 20 years I had picked myself up from bedroom and bathroom floors. Begging him to stop. Being kicked physically, mentally, and emotionally. I believed every tear I shed was proof I wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t “over it” enough. I thought if I let the tears come, they would swallow me whole, leaving me drowning in my own pain.

But I was wrong.

Tears are not a sign of weakness. They are not an admission of failure. They are not proof that we are broken beyond repair. Tears are a language of the soul, a release of everything we have carried in silence for far too long.

For years, I held my tears back like a dam on the verge of breaking. I swallowed pain, bit my tongue, and forced smiles, believing that if I could just keep it together, I could convince the world—and myself—that I was fine. But healing does not come through pretending. It comes through feeling. And oh, how deeply we must feel to heal.

The first time I allowed myself to cry freely was my first night alone, away from him. I expected to feel weak. Instead, I felt something else entirely—relief. Each tear that fell carried a weight I didn’t even know I was still holding. The shame, the fear, the grief, the guilt—all of it poured out of me, and for the first time in a long time, I could breathe.

I’m not going to sugarcoat it—that night, I cried like I had never cried before. The kind of cry that shakes your whole body, that leaves you gasping for air, that makes you wonder if you’ll ever stop. But with every tear that fell, I felt lighter. I felt more human. I felt... alive.

Crying is not weakness. It is courage.

It takes bravery to let yourself feel. It takes strength to acknowledge the pain you’ve endured. It takes resilience to admit, “This hurt me,” and allow yourself to grieve.

Tears mean you are still alive.

They mean your heart, though bruised and battered, is still beating.

They mean you have survived.

So if today, you find yourself on the verge of breaking, if your chest is tight and your eyes burn with unshed tears, I want you to know this: Let them fall. You are not weak for crying. You are human. And there is nothing stronger than a heart that has been broken and still dares to beat again.

Let your tears cleanse you. Let them remind you of how far you’ve come. Let them be the proof that you are still here, still fighting, still growing.

Because tears are not weakness. They are strength in liquid form.