A strong woman. Who is she? How was she made?

Was she born with strength, determination and perseverance?

Or was she formed from necessity?

Forged in the fires of adversity,

Tainted by the sins of others,

Molded through the storms of loneliness and pain.

Was she once a carefree child singing a melody of innocence?

Dancing in the gentle rains of love and joy?

Running with hope and trust to find the strong arms of safety, security and acceptance,

Only to stumble under the iron fists of abuse and disdain?

Was her innocence stolen and traded for shame?

 Was she always “stubborn as a mule” or did her will rise up to form a mighty fortress to surround her fragile heart?

The strong woman, her shoulders squared, structured to carry the heavy loads for herself and others.

Her arms, stout, designed to endure the hardships without giving way, all the while serving as a safe-haven of grace and love.

Her eyes, fixated, discerning, possessing the key to the portals of her soul for anyone who is brave enough to enter.

Her expression, inviting to some, impenetrable to others.

She stands tall like the mighty oak whose roots entrench the earth.

Seasons change and so does she, blooming, bending, letting go, but never breaking.

She is independent, capable, a force to be reckoned with.

Intimidating to those who are weak,

Judged by those who are haughty.

Misunderstood by those who only observe her force.

Recognized by those who have traveled the same trodden path,

Yet, there are moments when being strong is as much of a curse as it is a blessing.

Yes, she can handle her own, however being on her own was never the path she wanted to take.

It was imperative, rise up or die!

When the storms of life rage, the onlookers shout, “You got this, ” “You are so strong,” “You will get through!”

Undoubtedly, she will, she knows no other way.

She will brave the turbulent winds, and trudge through the downpour.

The mirk and the mire may slow her pace,

Nevertheless, she will emerge as the phoenix rising,

Resonating victory in her weary outstretched arms.

All those who depend on her will not be disappointed.

When the clouds break and the light permeates her sky,

She will rest in the presence of the One who is always faithful,

Giving thanks for her breakthrough.

This strong woman, adorned with fortitude, anchored in peace.

Oh! how her heart is full of gratitude!

Her spirit soaring like the majestic eagle!

She is a fighter! She is an overcomer! She is a champion!

Ah, but underneath it all…she is a woman.

Her soul is weary.

She was designed to be the helper not the doer.

To complete, not compete.

To be adored, and cherished,

 Not hidden, pushed to the side, the back or the end.

Night comes to steal away the light.

The silence surrounds her and the tears of exhaustion fall.

Her soul is hungry for the safe haven she desperately needs to come undone,

To repose, reset, and renew.

Her skin craves the gentle touch of companionship that will set her mind at ease.

She doesn’t begrudge being strong, on the contrary, weak women and even weaker men annoy her.

She is just tired of being strong, alone.

She wonders if it is an oxymoron to be strong and fragile all in the same skin?

Why can’t her strength be celebrated? Appreciated but not taken for granted?

Is she too much? Should she be any less than who life has demanded her to become?

As her hands search for another to hold, she drifts into sleep.

When the sun rises over the horizon, and darkness gives way to the morning light,

Again, she rises.

Disciplined to face whatever the new day brings.

She girds herself in grace, welcoming her faithful counterparts of determination, perseverance and tenacity.

The fragrance of hope, kindness and compassion wafts in the air as she passes.

She is who she is and she cannot waiver.

She is the strong woman.