My F#@ked Relationship with Resilience.

Resilience. What a bloody word. You hear it everywhere now. Mental health campaigns splash it across posters. Influencers toss it into captions like glitter. Corporates love it in their wellness emails. And when someone’s clearly struggling, clinging on by a thread, what do we say? You’re so resilient.

It sounds like a compliment. It’s meant to be one. What it actually means most of the time is You’ve been through hell and you haven’t cracked. Good on ya.

But is that really something to celebrate? What if being resilient is just another way to hide how much damage you’re carrying?

For years I wore resilience like a bloody badge. Life kicked me in the teeth and I kept getting back up. Loss, Grief, Shame, Guilt, Heartbreak, Burnout, Pressure. I kept going. I showed up. I smiled. I functioned. People clapped for it. Said I was strong. Inspirational even. That kind of thing.

But here’s what they didn’t see, resilience without rest is not strength. It’s survival mode. It’s running on fumes. It’s holding it all together because you feel like you’ve got no other option. And eventually, that catches up with you.

It caught up with me.

I kept pretending I was okay until I wasn’t. I kept pushing forward picking myself up and dusting myself off until something inside me snapped. I didn’t break all at once it was slower, more quiet than that. Like a slow leaking tyre you don’t notice until it is completely flat.

My version of resilience turned into self denial. And that denial became a wall I couldn’t see over. I didn’t even realise how much pain I’d buried. Until it cracked me open.

Hard.

We’re fed this idea that resilience means bouncing back quickly. That it means getting knocked down and getting straight back up. Be tough. Keep fighting. Keep smiling. Push through. That’s the message.

But where is the space to fall apart? Where is the permission to say I’m not okay? Where is the truth about what it really takes to get through the hard stuff?

Because life is brutal sometimes. People die. People leave. You lose businesses, jobs, friends, yourself. You deal with things you never thought you’d have to. And we’re meant to just roll with the punches and keep going?

That kind of resilience, the one that hides the pain and wears a brave face is not healthy. It’s a recipe for burnout. It’s emotional suppression disguised as strength.

Real resilience isn’t about being bulletproof. It’s about being human.

It’s crying in the car before you walk into work and still getting out of the car. It’s lying in bed and texting someone I’m not coping when everything in you says to go silent. It’s being honest about your pain even when it makes people uncomfortable. It’s choosing to sit in your mess instead of pretending it’s fine.

That’s the part no one talks about. We love a good comeback story. But we skip the chapters full of therapy appointments, breakdowns, medication, long nights, empty days. The quiet stuff. The stuff that’s too raw to fit into an Instagram caption.

Looking back now, I wish I knew that resilience isn’t about doing it all on your own. It’s not about bottling things up and pushing through. It’s knowing your limits. It’s knowing when to rest. It’s letting someone in. It’s admitting that you’re not made of steel.

So yeah. My relationship with resilience was f**ked. It nearly broke me.

But now I’m rewriting what it means. I’m learning that strength can look like softness. That slowing down doesn’t mean failure. That falling apart is sometimes the first step toward healing.

Real resilience isn’t pretending you’re fine. It’s knowing when to stop, when to ask for help, when to let yourself feel.

I’ve been there. I’m still learning.

If this resonates, reach out. I’d love to connect: theunbreakablefarmer.com.au/contact

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You’re not alone in this.